


Walls

by ProfessionalDaydreaming



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Druids, Fanfiction, Fantasy, Gen, Gilneas, Magic, Original Character(s), Video Game, Violence, Worgen, World of Warcraft - Freeform, walls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-10-16 16:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessionalDaydreaming/pseuds/ProfessionalDaydreaming
Summary: Gilneas was a forgotten city, until the worgen curse brought reality crashing upon its rocky shores. Rhonen has lived in the city his whole life, but things are about to change very quickly, and for the worst. With the city coming down around their ears, Rhonen will have to recruit all the help he can get, from every walk of life, if they are to survive the night and see the dawn.Whether they like it or not, the walls are coming down.





	1. Chapter 1

For the first time that day, the shop was quiet.

Rhonen had been busy all day, like every day before, and perhaps, every day after. There were herbs to be picked and sorted, potions and poultices to be mixed. There were spells to learn and spells to practice, clothes to be washed and hung and dishes to be scrubbed. Celestine’s was a quiet shop, even for Gilneas, but there were always things to be done. And when all of the herbs had been sealed away for the night and the evening meal prepared, eaten, and cleaned up, Celestine had decided to retire to her small room on the bottom floor, next to the fragrant herb closets. Rhonen could then finally make his way up the stair to the top loft, overlooking the shop. He could then remove his apron, put on his nightclothes, and sink with an exhausted sigh into his old bed and into blessed sleep.

So when he heard something scratch just above his head on the roof, you will understand how annoyed the young apprentice was to be disturbed. Bed time was a sacred thing, and dawn was drawing ever closer with calls to responsibilities and obligations. Disturbing the sleeping is a crime against dreams.

Moments passed, but when the sound did not return, Rhonen quelled his anger and sighed, sinking back into his woolen refuge.

But the rooftop scratching came again - louder this time. It was a raven, surely. Gilneas was rife with the birds, and they were deviously smart. That raven was in for a plucking, no matter how sacred Celestine said life was. Rhonen cast open the window and peered up the slanted roof, but found only the moon and silent night. Surely it had to be a raven.

Rhonen’s eyes adjusted to the moonlight, full and bright in the night sky. In the shingles, Rhonen could see several destroyed roof tiles, with deep gash marks carved up and down the roof. That would be a new project come the next day, but he had no time to be annoyed. Whatever had made those scratches had to be the largest, angriest raven he had ever seen.

Or not a raven at all…

“Master?” he called, peering over the rail. There was no reply from the dark shop below. She was a light sleeper - Rhonen opening the window should have been enough to rouse her. Yet there didn’t appear to be another human, no other faces besides the portrait Celestine had been painting of him. She was a talented artist, he could see his own green eyes staring back at him. Dark hair, clean shaven face, young – it made him feel like a boy. He had tried to paint with her, but only managed to make brown smudges when he had tried to draw nature.

Other than that lonely face, there was nothing. Only the silence of night.

The wrong kind of silence.

Gilneas was a quiet city, even on its busiest days. People spoke softly, even in crowds. Silence was nothing new to the cloud-covered terraces, but this silence was eerie. There were always the birds – ravens and the last birds of the evening chorus. The sound of the ocean breezes coming off the coast, moving about the forest and rustling the trees. But when Rhonen listened again through the now open window, he didn’t hear any of that. The wind was quiet, as were the birds and the sound of the city at night. People stayed up late in Gilneas, there would always be people about on the streets, urchins and the underground rising to the surface with the coming dark.

But there was nothing.

Rhonen’s clothes had only just dried, but his nightshirt hardly made sufficient investigation attire (what would the neighbors think?). He grabbed his shirt and trousers, vest and worn shoes, and exited the house onto the street. He planned to ask someone if they had seen anything on the roofs, but there was no one about, not in their part of the city.

Gilneas was a city built in the old style, concentric circles leading outward. Many of the human cities in Azeroth were built around their Keep, much like Stormwind. But Lord Greymane lived outside the city with his family, in a large, resplendent manor that could be seen from the outskirts of the city. Instead, Gilneas bloomed out from Light’s Dawn Cathedral, whose spires sprung high over the city skyline, almost touching the glowing moon. Gilnaens are old people with old ways, and their faith lies at the center of their values. The Cathedral is the guiding strength and comfort of Gilneas and her people.

It made Rhonen’s stomach turn.

Voices sounded from the west, near the Merchant Square. There were lights dancing among the houses and other buildings – something was going on. It was Summer, but the chill of night never leaves Gilneas, not even on its hottest days. Rhonen retreated back into the house long enough to grab his ragged overcoat, the one he had sewn the patches on, and then headed toward the Western edge of town.

Gilneas was one of the older cities in Lordaeron, and on nights like this, it showed. Gothic spires and towers reached with thin fingers toward the sky, and the windows. Cobblestone streets spiraled toward the center, leading all of the city’s lost toward the Cathedral, where hopefully they could find some salvation or truth. The Cathedral was always brightly lit, but the moon was a powerful rival tonight. The wind kicked up, whistling and howling through the narrow streets. Rhonen shivered, pulling the collar of his coat further up on his neck. His hair was standing on end, his skin a tingle.

After several more minutes of walking, glancing over his shoulder at every noise, Rhonen finally made his way to the Merchant Square. Usually, the city continued to turn through the night, if slowly. But this was something much different.

Troops were out in full force, and people were gathering outside their doorways. The stands from the market were still up, waiting for their shopkeepers come the dawn. People walked about, examining things, all of them shifty-eyed and wary. Gilneans could be cold, even standoffish. This was fear – something had scared them.

Even in the city guard, there was a tense energy. They kept moving – adjusting their armor, moving their swords and spears. Fidgeting, with their armor clanking and scraping.

And among them, mounted on a chestnut steed, was Liam Greymane, looking as commanding as he could, surrounded as he was with the air of fear.

“I want the perimeter secured and the gates manned by two guards at all times. No one gets in, no one gets out,” he said, his voice echoing off the looming buildings. He must have been roused – generally, Liam kept his long hair neat and tight. Now, it was long, thrown into a tail, falling down his back as his head turned, looking from street to street. His eyes were shadowed, there bags underneath. But they were still wide, whipping from street to street.

“We protected Gilneas from the Scourge. We protected Gilneas during the Northgate rebellion. We will protect Gilneas from whatever this new threat may be,” the prince shouted.

Liam might have been royalty for the city, but out of the Greymane family, he was the most approachable. While Genn spent much of his time in the manor, watching from afar, Liam spent much of his time in the city, talking with Gilneans. He could then take that information back to his father – what the kingdom required day to day, who was fighting or overcoming their differences. So Rhonen only felt a little nervous making his way to the soldiers, looking up to Liam on his mount.

“Stand ready, guards! We don't know how many intruders we're dealing with, but the Headlands are overrun and we're cut off from the harbor towns. Expect to be outnumbered.”

“What’s all this, my lord? Is something wrong?” he asked. The soldiers frowned, making a perimeter around the prince, pushing him back. Prince Greymane blinked and looked down, meeting Rhonen’s eyes.

“What are you still doing here citizen? Haven’t you heard? The city’s under complete lockdown,” Liam said. He didn’t look angry, more surprised. Rhonen was surprised as well.

“I hadn’t heard. I was doing chores, and I didn’t see anyone. We’re living on the East End, I was looking for my master, Celestine,” Rhonen said. Prince Liam frowned, but only just. They may not have known who he was, but they knew his master.

“I haven’t seen her – it’s likely that she’s been evacuated with the others. Go see Lieutenant Walden – he’ll give you further directions for evacuation.”

Evacuation? Could it really be so serious? Gilneans were territorial - it would take a lot for them to think of abandoning the safety of the city.

“I know Lieutenant Walden, he’s the guard master of the East End. Did you see where he went?” Rhonen asked. Prince Liam was distracted by another guard coming up to his mount, and the Prince leaned down while the guardsman whispered something to him. People seemed to be returning to their homes, fetching things in order to leave the city, or heading off down the street. Another guard leaned forward toward Rhonen.

“I think I saw the Lieutenant head for the West gate. Said he might have saw something and went to have a look. It’s been a few minutes though, might have been draining the lizard, if you know what I mean?” the guard said with a smile. Rhonen frowned, but nodded his thanks. Behind the Prince’s guard, the street curved around the block to the Western Gate. Rhonen excused himself, taking quick steps.

The voices were quieter around the corner. The light from the streetlamps was dim, even with the bright moonlight, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He approached the tall, iron gate, looking out through the bars. Beyond was the forest leading down into the Delta, leading out to the Sea. The night was bright, and he could make out the shadows and the trees, thick and forboding beyond the safety of the gate. Rhonen made his way closer, eyes wide.

“Lieutenant?” Rhonen asked. His voice was barely a whisper. “It’s me, Rhonen. Prince Liam said you would know about the evacuation?” he asked. There was no answer, only the ocean breeze playing amongst the trees, shifting the shadows and making Rhonen’s hair stand on end. He was about to reach the gate, thinking perhaps Walden might have let himself outside, but he did not make it that far. His foot touched something, and it made him jump.

At his feet was the ravaged body of Lieutenant Walden, eyes staring up at the sky in terror. Rhonen gasped, his heart jumping into his throat. His body was a mangle of rips and tears, and there were deep gashes into his breastplate. Rhonen looked closer, trying to see the weapon that might have been used. Had someone attacked him?

But it did not appear like any weapon mark Rhonen had seen, and he had seen a quite a few. This was something different, something more ferocious.

Something not human.

Only then, in the moonlit silence, could Rhonen make out the faint growling coming from beyond the gate. When Rhonen looked up to see, something smashed into the iron bars, raking its long claws against them. There was a great roaring and snarling before it was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared. Too fast for Rhonen to see what it was, and enough to knock him back off his feet. Sitting down, he heard a scream from behind him, back near the square.

“What… what are those things on the rooftops?!” It was a man, and there was a strangled cry that abruptly, and painfully, cut off. There were more screams, drawn swords. There were many more shouts and commands, all lost in the commotion. Rhonen blinked trying to catch his breath. He dashed back to the square to see what had happened.

That was the first time he saw them.

It was fighting with several guards, who were surrounding the Prince. Liam was pointing his pistol down at it, taking aim. And in front of the guards, bearing down on them, was a nightmare on two feet. It was a great beast, tall, with long arms and legs. Its hands were large, long fingers tipped with longer claws. Its hunched back was covered in fur, hackles raised and aggressive. His legs were jointed, like an animal, with big paws for feet. But most impressive was the face – a wolf’s visage with a long snout, maw opened in a bloodied snarl. White fangs gleamed out from dark fur, and its mad eyes were ravenous.

“Take it down! Kill the beast!” Prince Liam commanded. He fired a thunderous shot, which struck the beast in the shoulder. It yipped and faltered, but did not fall. Its claws lashed out, and it howled with fury, leaping into the legion of guards protecting the prince. Claws and fangs flashed in the dark, and two guards fell dead around it, armor rent and blood leaking into the cobblestones. Some guards backed away, but a brave few advanced and attacked the creature, hacking away at it and beating it back. It was fast, able to dodge most of the swings. When it finally was cut, it yipped again, leaping back and jumping onto the low hanging roofs. It clawed its way up the tiles toward the rooftop, taking another massive leap toward the city and out of sight.

Definitely not a raven…

It was a terrifying thing to be behold, if it had only been one. To Rhonen’s horror, the square was overrun with the beasts, snarling and howling as they attacked whoever was within reach. They chased down and leapt on unarmed citizens, ripping and gnashing into the them like they had never eaten before. Bones crunched, and Rhonen felt ill.

“I see you’re not one to run away from danger. Well done then.” It was the Prince, still mounted. Another one of the beasts leaped down from the roof, trying land between Liam and his guard. It landed lightly on his paws, but before it could raise a clawed hand, Liam whipped his saber from its scabbard, slicing into the beast neck with a clean swipe. There was a yelp and the beast collapsed, falling toward Rhonen. Its eyes were wide, with pupils like pinpricks as the life ebbed out onto the street.

“Worgen! My father had warned me that Archmage Arugal’s creations had run amok. But where are they coming from?” he asked, looking above. Rhonen could hear them all above him, claws scratching and tearing at the roof tiles. They couldn’t see their number, but it sounded like a great many.

Prince Liam set his jaw.

“It doesn’t matter now. Help us make quick work of them. We’ll show them what Gilneans are made of!” he commanded. Rhonen blinked, pointing a finger at himself.

“Me?” he asked. He was no warrior, he certainly didn’t look like one, all lank and no muscle. The Prince nodded.

“Yes, you! We need all the help we can get. If you are Celestine’s apprentice, then she will have taught you some of her skills. Lend us your power, for the sake of your city.”

Worgen?! Celestine had told him about them, but not very much. He knew they were monsters, summoned as servants from another world. Arugal had been the mage to bring them, and had once resided in Gilnaes some long years ago. But Rhonen did not know his fate, or why he had needed such terrifying beasts to defend him. There was little time to think on the matter, more of the creatures were descending from the rooftops, sniffing about for new prey. Rhonen focused on one, a larger worgen that stalked out in front of the others. There were five more, but the others fanned out around the larger. Some kind of packleader, then.

Rhonen looked back up toward the moon. These were new skills, but there was no more time for further practice. Celestine had told him the world was the best teacher once, and he prayed she was right. He could feel the flow of nature around him – it was strong tonight under the full moon. He took a deep breath and cleared his mind (as best he could).

 _You are a part of nature_ , he thought. _You are a small piece of a greater power. It is within you, as it is within all of us. Bring it forth._

Rhonen could feel the air thrumming around him, like the night was singing to him. If it were day, he could have come up with something faster, there would be more energy then. But there was still energy in the moonlight. He brought his hands together, pulling together the song into a ball of whirling starlight. It felt cold in his hands, almost burning like ice. He took the energy ball in one hand and hurled it at the pack leader. It hummed through the air, propelled from his hand, striking the pack leader on the right shoulder. It howled, falling to the side, catching itself on a clawed hand.

A direct hit! He’d worked a few nights trying to make a Starsurge, but usually managed to burn his own hand or have the stars explode before he could throw them. He wasn’t sure about the world, but stress was also a powerful teacher. He pumped his fist in the air, but his eyes grew wide when the beast turned on him. It sniffed the air and snarled, eyes wide with rage. Rhonen gulped.

Now what?

The creature rolled onto all fours and charged toward Rhonen, claws scraping the cobblestones. He gasped and dove to one side, barely missing being ripped open from the worgen’s powerful claws. Before Rhonen could recover, the worgen was on him, pinning him to the ground while his teeth tried to snap at his neck. His fingers dug into the creature’s fur, pushing it up by its shoulders, but it was powerful. Frantic, Rhonen looked up toward the moon again, his eyes wide. The air was vibrating again, a deeper, softer sound than the Starsurge. He took in a breath, his eyes wide and glowing with moonlight.

From above, a great beam of light suffused around Rhonen and the worgen. It grew brighter, more concentrated, cleaving through the night until the beast yelped again, falling away from Rhonen and unto the cobblestone. The skin and fur on its back hissed, like it had been burned. It was no ordinary fire, but Moonfire, and it would burn icy cold for a long time.

Enraged with pain, the worgen started to rise back to two feet. This time, Rhonen was ready. His hands were together again, with starlight collecting between them. He took his bundle of stars in his strong hand and sent them whirling at the pack leader. It struck the creature in the face, burning starlight splashing over the dark fur. However hard he had thrown the spell, it was hard enough to rattle the creatures brain into cold mush. The worgen fell back, dead weight landing heavy on the street.

Rhonen threw his hands up, looking around. Would have been nice if someone had seen that. For all of the people fighting in the square, many of them were dealing with their own worgen issues. For the few guards who had seen, they looked a little wary. Even the Prince himself, stalwart as he was, paused, if only for a moment. Rhonen frowned and turned back to the task at hand. They didn’t understand, it was foolish to assume that Gilneans would.

There were more pressing matters than people’s opinions. Without their leader, the followers of the dead worgen seemed disoriented. In their confusion, the guards fell on them in groups. One worgen was tenacious enough to hold off a number of guards on their own, and as they fought, more began to drop from the rooftops into the square. As their numbers grew, Rhonen continued to throw stars and cast Moonfire where he could. This time, rather than picking them out, he waited until some of the guards distracted them, before finishing them off with moonlight.

Even for his new strategy, they kept coming, almost in an endless stream. The guards were falling back further and further, enclosing their Prince in their ranks.

“They keep coming! But from where?”

“There’s too many of them!”

“What is your command, my Prince?”

Liam looked conflicted, his eyes up toward the rooftops. Rhonen followed his gaze. Beasts were still coming, howling and roaring in a hungry fervor. They had discovered the high windows of many of the houses, and were starting to smash their way in. Screams were coming from the homes around the square. People were dying.

“The civilians aren’t safe here anymore. Not even inside their homes. Their numbers are too great. Guards, pull ranks! Get these people out of here!” he called. The guards did their best to disperse, cutting through the ranks of claws and fangs to find their way to the homes.

“You! Druid! Help us evacuate the homes. My father’s army in the prison district will be able to better protect them!” he said to Rhonen. He nodded, running through the throng of howling worgen and battling guards.

There was little chance that the people in the square were unaware of the threat. Still, Gilneans were nothing if not polite. Rhonen knocked on the door and called.

“Hail! The Merchant’s Square is no longer safe! You need to get out of there! You and everyone inside!” he called. There was no sound for some moments, and Rhonen wrapped on the door again, harder this time. There was a crash, and the door burst open, knocking the druid back and sending him stumbling back.

“Please help!” a man cried. Just as he put his foot out of the door, a clawed hand whipped out, digging into the man’s shoulder. The man was dragged back inside the house with vicious strength, the door slamming shut. There was frenzied screaming, which abruptly cut off with a snarl. Then the howling started.

Rhonen fell back, trying to catch his breath. He didn’t get nearly long enough to recover until another worgen noticed him, and he had to drive it away with Moonfire. He rose and dashed to the next house, pounding furiously on the door.

“You need to get out there! Leave everything and run!” he shouted. The door flew open this time from the first knock, and a woman emerged.

“It’s right behind me!” she called, running out into the square. A worgen whirled out into the square, fur raised in fangs bared. Rhonen blasted its side with Starsurge, sending the worgen flying back into a neighboring wall. Rhonen cursed that he had not grabbed his staff. He hadn’t know he would require a weapon tonight. He blasted the worgen again with another surge of stars, letting it slump against the wall, internal organs and tissues sizzling with magical trauma. He left the beast to its fate, moving onto the next house.

He managed to save five people in total, but the beasts’ numbers continued to grow. The square was getting crowded, and there was less and less space to move freely without either getting in the way of a guard or becoming a worgen’s next rage kill.

“Hold the line! Hold! Let the civilians retreat! You must hold the line!” the Prince shouted. A divide had formed between the guards and the worgen, with Prince behind, still mounted and overseeing the defense. They were holding as well as they could, but losing ground as the worgen landed behind their ranks from above, always taking guards and civilians down with them. Rhonen made his way back through the crowd of guards, turning to face the worgen so that the others might also escape. Behind him, the Prince’s steed rode closer.

“It’s time for you to leave as well. What is your name, druid?” the Prince asked.

“Oh! Rhonen,” he said. The Prince nodded.

“Go to the Military District with the other citizens. Ensure their safe passage,” he said.

“But, sir, I could help here-“

“There are too many! Even for us. We’ve lost the Merchant’s District, but it might allow us time to organize further action. If you wish to help, check in with Gwen Armstead when you cross the bridge… see if everyone is okay,” he said.

“And what about you?” Rhonen asked.

“I will stay here with the guards and cover the civilians retreat. Go now. That is an order!” he shouted. He drew a pistol from its holster, shooting into the throng of advancing worgen. His horse reared – there was nothing more to say. Rhonen turned and made his way away from the scene, following the panicked crowd away from the doomed square.


	2. A Royal Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having survived the attack on Merchant's Square, Rhonen is sent fleeing with many other civilians. He has shown some of his power, and Gilneas is taking notice.

Rhonen did his best to navigate the crowds, crossing the small bridge to the Military district. Howls still carried on the winds at their back, herding more people across.

The streets were narrower near the Prison and Barracks, but people had made do with the space. Windows were open, people were passing out food and other supplies. There were arguments, shouting, crying, even laughing. The people were more alive than Rhonen had ever seen them. A woman, crouched on top of a crate, looking serious. Children milling about, some looking for their parents.

And among them, handing out supplies and dishing out orders, was the indomitable Gwen Armstead. Rhonen had seen her in Merchant’s Square, collecting supplies and distributing them to others to bring to the Military District. Now, she was brandishing an intimidating looking rapier, pointing and waving while shouting orders.

“Barricade the far side! Shoot all mangy beasts that come close! Hey, hang this from that high window. Signal to any other evacuees! Make sure they can see we’re here!” Rhonen glanced around, but he couldn’t see his master anywhere. Gwen found him first.

“You there! Druid!” she shouted, pointing her rapier at him. Rhonen moved toward her, hands up.

“Prince Liam told me to find you here,” Rhonen said eyeing the sword. Gwen smiled and pulled it back.

“No need to worry, we’re all friends here. Truth be told, I’m no good with a sword. But it makes you look in command, and the worgen give you a wide berth. We need all able hands. Most of us made it here alive, but the worgen are on this side of the city as well.” That was worrisome news.

“Have you heard anything about Celestine? I can’t seem to find her.” Gwen gave him a half smile.

“The harvest witch? Oh yes, she did ask about her apprentice. ‘The wind knows your name…’ apparently. She’s in the alley, at the cross,” she said. Rhonen didn’t really appreciate when they called her that, the ‘harvest witch.’ It was a title said with respect, but also with some derision, a little fear. Still, that certainly sounded like Celestine.

“Thank you very much for your help,” he said. Gwen nodded.

“You’d best hurry, we’re going to head South once everyone is accounted for.”

Rhonen headed into the alleyway, pushing through more people. At the intersection of the two alleyways, there was Celestine. Her modest robes were an even darker brown with dirt and grime from the streets – she must have fled with the rest of them. She was kneeling over someone, her hands suffused with a soft, green light. He could see the deep set wrinkles on her face, even in the shadow of the alley.

“Master!” he called, running over to her. She looked up with a start, a tired smile spreading across her face.

“Oh, Rhonen! I am very glad to see you. I heard your name on the wind,” she said. Rhonen nodded.

“Yes, Gwen did mention that. Are you all right?” he asked. She might have looked tired, but she nodded.

“Yes, I have been lucky. Others, however, have not been so fortunate,” she said. She frowned, and turned back to the woman lying at her feet. She was young and looked strong, but she was struggling to breathe. There were deep cuts down her back, and she looked sweaty and fevered.

“Master, why didn’t you come and fetch me? With what happened in the Merchant’s Square…” Rhonen said, his voice trailing off. He hadn’t really had a quiet moment to process what he had seen, but now, he could understand just how close he had come to becoming some worgen’s late night meal.

Celestine looked sullen.

“I tried to make my way back to you, Rhonen, believe me. I was out meditating under the full moon, when I heard a commotion further South. I got cut off from the house when the worgen attacked. I saw guards heading toward Merchant’s Square, and I told Lieutenant Walden to try and find you if he coulds. Did he not find you there?” she asked. Rhonen frowned, putting a steadying hand on his master’s shoulder.

“He’s dead, teacher. They got him by the West Gate,” he said. Celestine’s eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked afraid. But the moment passed, and she set her jaw.

“No time to mourn for the dead, when there are so many living who need our help,” she said.

Celestine’s hands started glowing again, as she attempted to Rejuvenate the injured woman. Onlookers watched, but kept their distance. This wasn’t the Light that Gilneans were familiar with. This was nature magic, old magic, from long before the Wall, before the city itself. It made them wary. Rhonen was about to say something, but Celestine shook her head.

“We were driven to the edge of extinction once before, Rhonen. But we druids, keepers of the old ways, saved our people from famine,” she said. She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate. The light in her hands shown brighter.

“When we cut ourselves off from the world and our crops failed,” she continued, “it was our order who called upon the earth’s blessing and restored the harvest.” The light continued to grow, but the girl did not appear to improve.

“Just as we did then, it is best to put our faith in the hands of a higher power. Join me now and learn what the wild has to teach us,” she concluded. She gently took Rhonen’s hands, guiding them over the woman. She closed her eyes, and Rhonen followed her lead. In the dim light, both of their hands started to glow a gentle green. Together, it grew brighter and brighter. There was a green flash, and beneath them, the ragged cuts on the back of the woman knitted together. Her skin cooled, and her eyes finally opened, fever broken. The light faded, and although the woman still looked weak, she appeared much better than before. Celestine smiled to Rhonen, and he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride.

“Thank you. Thank you both. I thought I was lost.” Celestine nodded.

“You’re still weak, and there is still much work to be done tonight. Just rest for now, we can get you something to drink,” she said.

A guard appeared around the corner, moving into the alleyway. He headed over toward them when he saw Rhonen.

“Rhonen?” the guard asked with a gruff voice. Rhonen nodded. “You have Royal Summons. King Greymane requests your presence, if you’re able,” he said. Rhonen blinked, looking over to Celestine. She looked a little surprised, but nodded.

“I’ve taught you all that is practical for now,” she said. “It is time we joined the other survivors.” As she spoke, more guards were arriving. They looked battered, worn down from fighting off the worgen in Merchant’s Square. Their eyes were wary – they had not been successful.

“The others mentioned King Greymane and his royal guard are just south of here. We should go there and seek safety in numbers. You go on ahead, I need to assist moving the injured someplace safe. The winds are watching over you, Rhonen. Take this, and please be safe,” she said. She reached behind her and handed him her own staff, made of darkened wood from the Blackwald. It was smooth from years of use, and he took it gently. Rhonen took a deep breath. This was no time to be misty-eyed. Still, they were in danger. He gently put his arms around his master and hugged her close.

“You too. I will see you soon,” he said. Celestine could be harsh and had an older way of thinking, but she was the only family he had. She hugged him back. They stayed on the cobblestones for only a moment before Rhonen pulled back and moved away. She would be safe. She had to be…

“Come with me, I can take you to his Majesty,” the guard said. Rhonen nodded, and they exited the alleyway together, heading south toward the military district.

Others were moving as well. People were grabbing what belongings they had desperately taken, gathering their families and beginning to move. There was more howling – it was distant, but sounded like it was coming from all over the city. How bad was the intrusion?

They made their way in front of the crowds, and headed over the bridge in silence, both of them listening closely for any indication of attack. Rhonen could feel the guards eyes on him, and when no immediate attack came, the guard cleared his throat.

“She’ll be all right, chap. No need to fret,” he said. He was from the Southern end of the city; his accent was thick. Rhonen kept his eyes forward, collecting his thoughts.

“Celestine is the only family I’ve ever known – she raised me all on her own. She took me in when I had no one, when I was too small to defend myself. The city can turn a blind eye to unpleasant things if it wishes, Gilneans are like that. But not her. She was always there,” Rhonen said. The guard looked surprised.

“What happened to your parents?” he asked. Rhonen shrugged.

“No one seems to know. Maybe they lived in the city, maybe they didn’t. But Celestine found me, in the alleys near her herb gardens, in a basket, just like those old stories. She could have been like the rest of the city, turned up her nose and waited for someone else to solve her problems. Instead, she gave me a place to sleep, warm food. She gave me a place to call home, someone to call family.” Rhonen gave the guard a pointed look.

“You can understand, then, why I would care about her.” The guard nodded. His face was pensive under the helmet. Rhonen sighed – he shouldn’t be so harsh. Everyone was in danger tonight.

“What of your loved ones?” Rhonen asked. The guard coughed.

“Already evacuated. They were among the first to leave the city, my wife and daughter. I was one of the first to heed the call to arms, so they left as I did. They’ll be safe in Duskhaven by now, awaiting the all clear.” Rhonen smiled.

“That is good news. If anything, they will be safe. There is something to be thankful for. What is your name?”

“Corporal Flynn, at your service, druid,” he said. He seemed genuine. Rhonen shook his gauntlet.

“Thank you for your service tonight, Corporal Flynn. I pray you continue to serve your city with courage. Keep a sharp eye,” he said. Flynn nodded.

“I intend to. You do the same.” They had entered the Military District, and were approaching the King’s ramshackle operation. Men were dashing about, distributing weapons and other supplies. People were moving past them, more civilians fleeing to the South and away.

“The King will see you now. You can see his escort there,” Flynn said, pointing. There was a large legion of guards standing at the mouth of the prison. Swords were drawn, and more troops were filing in. Atop two steeds sat the leaders of the defense. On the left, in fine clothes and a dark hat, sat Lord Godfrey, looking grim. To his right, also looking stern, was the King of Gilneas himself, Lord Genn Greymane. He was dressed in his light armor, sword on his hip, grey steed looking sturdy. His grey hair was mussed somewhat – he might have been fighting before. Inside the prison walls, Rhonen could hear the savage chorus of combat. Something was amiss. He approached slowly, taking a quick bow outside the perimeter of guards.

“You asked to speak with me, my lord?”

The King turned, spurring his horse forward. He clopped heavily through the throng of guards to stand in front of Rhonen.

“I have heard much about you this evening, master druid. You were an essential asset in the evacuation of Merchant’s Square. I thank you for your service,” the King said. His voice was firm, but tired. It was the middle of the night, and there were things yet to be done. Rhonen had not felt that essential in the escape, but it wasn’t his place to doubt the King, even if he did not always agree with his Majesty.

“I thank you, my lord.”

“This night is proving to be a long one, for all of us. I am afraid that may include you. I have some need of your services, if you are able,” he said. Rhonen looked up.

“What more could I do?” he asked.

“Are you familiar with the name Darius Crowley?” the King asked. Rhonen blinked.

“Of course, sire.” Who hadn’t heard of Darius Crowley? The King’s tired eyes fell on the prison. He set his shoulders in resignation.

“Lord Darius Crowley has been called many things. Rebel. Traitor. Terrorist. Before the Civil War, I called him… friend,” he said. The lines on his face seemed to sink deeper under the weight of his solemn memories.

“I never blamed him for leading an insurrection against me. His land and people were separated from Gilneas by a stone wall… but we had no choice.” Rhonen could have given his opinion on the matter, but the King wouldn’t have heard his grievances. Not that night.

“Regardless,” the King continued, “Crowley is exactly the kind of person we need now. I want you to enter Stoneward Prison and ask Captain Broderick about Crowley’s whereabouts. I would send my own men, but there’s still bad blood. You have proven yourself a capable combatant with a unique set of skills. You are exactly who we need to find Darius and bring him to me.” Rhonen wasn’t sure what to say – he hesitated. King Greymane could sense his apprehension.

“I am sure you have seen your share of terrors tonight, druid. Enough to fill a lifetime. I understand what I am asking of you is difficult, but understand, all our lives are at risk. Darius can help us. _You_ can help us, Rhonen.” The druid frowned.

Many of the residents of Gilneas were not fans of Celestine, and Rhonen by association. For this, Celestine had never been fond of the King of his regime, especially his decision to build the wall. She had even considered joining the Northgate Rebellion - she had told Rhonen so several times - but she had figured she could help more in the King’s semi-good graces on the inner part of the wall, rather than the outer. She had been right, they would have starved had the druids not brought about the harvest. How quickly some forget…

What was his duty? Whom did he serve? What would Master do in his place?

It was then that Lord Godfrey rode up, slowly, astride his dark horse.

“We do not have time for this, sire. What will it be, druid?” he asked. When Rhonen still did not answer, Godfrey leaned down from his horse, moonlight reflecting in his spectacles.

“To defy your King in any capacity is a punishable offence, my little heathen. On tonight of all nights, insubordination is nothing short of treason.”

“Lord Godfrey,” the King said. Godfrey turned to him.

“We are in the middle of a crisis. If he will not lend his strength, then he is less than useless. The blood of every civilian and guard run down by those snarling beasts will be on your hands. Now, what say you?” he demanded. He rose in his saddle, bearded chin high and proud. Rhonen took a deep breath.

“If I should not return, and you should see Celestine, will you tell her something for me? Just… thank her for taking me in. Tell her I loved her,” he asked. Lord Godfrey looked indignant.

“A King has no business entertaining the wishes of the peasantry –“

“Enough, Vincent,” the King said.

“But… sire-“

“I said enough.” Besmirched, Godfrey lowered his head. King Greymane turned to Rhonen.

“Should you not return, I will honor your request – you have my solemn word.”

“Then I shall do what I can to help,” Rhonen said. The King smiled, wrinkles pulling into a tired smile. A gloved hand scratched at his grey whiskers.

“See that you do return, and you can tell her that yourself. Our hopes go with you, Rhonen. Good luck.” With that, King Greymane turned back to his men, riding back to peer into the prison yard. Rhonen started toward the prison, but Lord Godfrey blocked his path.

“Fine by me if King Greymane wants you to risk your life to rescue a known traitor,” he said.

“I thought you spoke of loyalty to your King, Vincent,” said Rhonen. Godfrey sneered.

“It’s Lord Godfrey to you, and I will not have my fealty questioned by some harvest witch’s servant. Crowley is dangerous, an enemy of the Kingdom. Do not forget, druid.” Godfrey’s eyes turned toward the prison.

“I detest Crowley, and his ilk. They should have been put to death years ago for their crimes,” he said. He turned back to Rhonen, one eyebrow raised.

“But sometimes it is necessary to face one danger with another. Crowley is to be our tool of salvation, and nothing more. When he has served his purpose, it’s back to the dungeons. If he should live that long,” he said. Rhonen was starting to realize he didn’t care for Lord Godfrey very much.

“Do me a favor and do something useful while you are in there. Kill some cursed fleabags. One more of them dead is one less to worry about.” Lord Godfrey didn’t wait for acknowledgement. He pulled the reigns of his dark steed away and began trotting back toward the King. Rhonen watched him carefully as he sidled up to the King’s side. If he felt Rhonen’s eyes burning a hole into the back of his neck, he ignored it.

There was nothing for it then. Rhonen hefted his staff, feeling the warmth of the wood, and began to push his way through the throng of guards toward the opening of Stoneward Prison.


	3. Draven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhonen's night continues to be filled with the unexpected. He's going to need help finding Darius, but who can help him?

The path into Stoneward Prison was not inviting.

Rhonen stood at the opening to the Prison Yard, thumb running over the head of his staff.

Worgen had swarmed over Stoneward, like bees from a hive. Guards did their best to fend them off in the yard and from the battlements, but their movements were sluggish, and each sword-swing was slower than the last. Much like Merchant’s Square, the worgen just kept coming, all the way from the top of the prison down.

There was no other way – Rhonen would have to fight his way through the pack. Godfrey would be pleased, he had told him to kill a few as he went. Rhonen had planned on ignoring his request, but there was no help for it. He had to be ready for a fight.

But he didn’t have to be the focus of the fight, if he could help it. He just needed to help some guards overcome their quarry, just like before. Looking over the yard, he didn’t see any guard that would resemble Captain Broderick, so he must have been inside. The entrance was just to his left - Rhonen could skirt the edges of the fight and still make it inside without having to face the pack directly.

He picked out some guards that were fighting near him to the left and headed over to them. They were both taking a single worgen, that would be the only one he had to remove in order to reach his goal.

He carefully made his way over the threshold, walking at half a stride, his footfalls as soft as possible. With his back against the wall, he started gathering stars to him to attack. A lot of things happened, but only after he threw the Starsurge.

First, the guard swung wide, trying to end the fight.

Second, the worgen leaned back, dodging the axe swing. The Starsurge passed through the space between them, missing the worgen by a hair’s length.

Third, the now distracted guard could not see another worgen descending from the prison roof. He had no time to defend himself from the claws that ripped into his armor.

Now, there was a dead guard, and two worgens to deal with.

Wonderful…

Both worgen charged, and there was no time to summon more stars. But the moon was strong over the prison, it didn’t take nearly as long to gather moonlight to him. He blasted the new worgen with Moonfire, stopping his charge dead with a strangled yip. The other worgen overtook the second, and Rhonen had to lunge out of the way, letting the worgen run into the wall. While the other worgen was still blind with pain from the Moonfire, Rhonen made a mad dash toward the entrance to the prison. If he got there, he could head inside and close the doors behind him, sealing himself in. He took the stairs two at a time, lungs cold and heart pounding.

He made it to the entrance, but the doors had been destroyed, and were hanging at useless angles from their hinges. There would be no protection there, and the growling was growing louder. He turned slowly – the worgen he managed to Moonfire seemed to have lost consciousness or died. The other worgen, however, had eyes only for Rhonen. It snarled and leapt, and Rhonen threw his hands in front of his face. His eyes were closed, so he couldn’t see. But he heard a strangled cry and a large weight collapse on the dirt.

He slowly opened his eyes to see a dead worgen laying in the dirt, blood flowing out from an arrow in its chest. He turned to see who he assumed to be Captain Broderick standing behind him, bow in hand.

“What in the Light’s name are you doing here, citizen! You need to evacuate with the others!” he shouted. The fighting was loud and frenzied, and Rhonen had to shout to hear himself.

“Captain Broderick?” he asked. The Captain nodded.

“I was sent by the King! Where can I find Darius Crowkey?! He needs him for the defense of the city!” he said. Captain Broderick looked taken aback, and they were in the middle of an invasion. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“Greymane wants to save Crowley? Has he gone mad?”

“He has his reasons. Where is he?” Rhonen asked. The Captain shook his head.

“I don't understand why the king wants to waste time saving his hide, but if you want to risk your life, then be my guest,” he said. It wasn’t as accusatory as Godfrey, and it made Rhonen wonder if he really was risking his life for something insane.

“Crowley and his men are holed up upstairs, probably plotting against the king as we speak!” The Captain said. So he had already been released?

“There may not be a city to take by the end of the night! If he’s as smart as the King says, he’ll understand that. Thanks for your help, and good luck!” he said. He moved passed the captain and headed for the stair.

Stoneward Prison was built in tiers, each housing more heinous criminals from the last. The lower, outer tiers were for thieves, adulterers, and for other minor offenses. The inner, higher tiers were for traitors, terrorists, and enemies of the state. Darius Crowley had gained the seat of honor, right in the center, locked behind so many iron doors that escape was unthinkable. At least, until a horde of cursed beasts from another world attack your city.

Who would have thought?

All of the tiers were connected by the stair, which wound up, leading to all of the halls where they kept the prisoners. Rhonen made fast work of the stairs, climbing as fast as he could toward the top.

“Is someone there? Hello?” Rhonen jumped, he thought he was alone.

“Anyone? Please?” came the voice again. It was a man’s voice, and it was nearby. Rhonen had to turn around and head back down one tier. There was a hallway leading to the lower tiers of the prison. There were a pair of hands waving from inside one of the cells close to the stairway.

“You there! Come here, quick!” Rhonen ran over and looked inside. There was man clutching the bars. His skin was tan, his hair dark and in mussed disarray. His face was rough, he hadn’t had a shave in some time. He was older than Rhonen by some years, taller. His body was lithe, like beaten leather, even from under his prison garb.

Upon seeing Rhonen, his dark eyes lit up.

“I feared everyone had forgotten about me. You have to let me out!” he said quickly. Rhonen hesitated, and the man frowned.

“Don’t be that way, kid. All the other prisoners have been released. I can hear the commotion outside, something is happening. You can’t just leave me here.” Rhonen agreed, but he was wary.

“You say all the other prisoners were released, except for you. Why wouldn’t they free you with the others?” he asked. The man sighed.

“Like I said, they forgot about me.”

“What did you do?” Rhonen asked.

“I feel like the timing is inappropriate for your line of questioning. You look like you’re in a hurry. Coincidentally, so am I. To get out of here,” he said.

“I would feel more comfortable chatting with a criminal if I knew his offense.” Rhonen said.

“I’ll tell you after you let me out,” The man said.

“Is it something shameful? Since you won’t tell me?” Rhonen continued. The man rolled his eyes.

“I’m accused of taking something that didn’t belong to me. But since it was in my possession when they arrested me, I’m of a mind to say it was mine. People need to take better care of their things, especially in this city,” he said.

“That sounds like a practiced defense, for a thief.”

“Thief or no, no one deserves to die in a prison like this. So I would appreciate if we could hurry the introductions along so we can get out of here. What’s your name kid?” he asked.

 “Rhonen, druid apprentice,” he said. The man nodded.

“Well met, Rhonen. Call me Draven, dashing gentlemen. Pleasantries aside, I should very much like to escape this deathtrap so I might see the dawn with my fellow man. Sound fair?” Rhonen nodded.

“I suppose so. Did you happen to see Darius Crowley come by here?” he asked. Draven frowned.

“You seem confused about your priorities, Rhonen. Can we perhaps escape, and then we can trade mutual friends?” he asked. Rhonen moved back to the stair, peering over the rail.

“You can tell me while I find the keys.”

There was a barred window in Draven’s cell, and something heavy slammed into it. Draven whipped around, and Rhonen’s head poked out from behind the bars.

It seemed to just be darkness outside, but they had been able to see light before, the moon was full that night. As they watched, the darkness seemed to move, and a large eye peered through the bars, pupils like pinpricks. There was a great roar, and claws reached through the bars and began to pull them away. It would have been impossible for a man, but the bars were just obstacles for a hunger driven worgen.

“No time for keys!” Draven shouted. Rhonen’s head whipped around, looking for anything to open the locked door with.

“What should I do?!”

“Anything! Just hurry!” Time was against them, they only had moments before the worgen would break inside and end Draven’s story. But the keys were nowhere to be found, and Rhonen didn’t want to run and find them. He set his staff down, putting his hands together. There wasn’t a lot of light inside the building, but the night was strong outside. He had to wave his hands a little, gathering stars in his fingers

_Focus. Focus. You are one with the night. You are one with the stars._

Draven watched with wide eyes as Rhonen gathered all the starlight in his hand. He raised an open palm and slammed the Starsurge into the cell door lock. The door rattled and heaved, and Rhonen grabbed the door and pulled. It held, and Rhonen’s grip slipped. He fell backward onto the far wall of the hallway. He had damaged the lock, but it hadn’t broken. The cell was still sealed shut. Draven looked incredulous.

“Really?!” Behind him, the bars broke, and a clawed hand lashed out from outside, looking for anything it could hold onto as it pulled itself inside the cell.

“If you have any other ideas, I would love to hear them!” he called. Rhonen frowned, trying to think. The worgen managed to get its full body inside. It stood a little taller than Draven and advanced on him.

“Any time now…”

“Working on it. Defend yourself.”

“With what?”

“Anything!” Rhonen said. Draven gave the kid a pointed look, and the worgen pounced. Draven dodged to one side, letting the worgen slam into the bars.

Rhonen grabbed hold of his staff. He wasn’t sure this would work, but he needed something stronger than his hands to break the lock, even with magic. He focused again, taking deep breaths, pulling more stars toward him. Rather than moving them through his hands this time, he waved the staff, letting the stars collect at the end. A weaker material would crack and shatter under the magical weight of burning cold stars. Celestine’s staff was crafted with wood from the Blackwald, methodically shaped and finished with powerful nature magic and elemental wards. If anything was strong enough to hold a Starsurge, it was her staff.

Inside the cell, the worgen charged again. Draven had no more space to run, and was pinned against the back of the cell, holding the furious worgen at bay with a sheet, which was quickly being shredded by the worgen’s claws.

“You just take your time. I’ve got all night,” he said. His back was leaning out of the destroyed window. Either the worgen would tear him to piece, or he would fall to his death.

Lovely…

The end of Celetine’s staff was shining with starlight. Rhonen took a breath, and with as much force as he could muster, he brought the end of the staff down on the lock with two hands. There was a small explosion of magic, and the lock shattered under the force. The worgen started from the explosion, and Draven used the opportunity to wrench himself free from the creature. He rushed out of the cell and tried to close the door behind him, only to have it swing back open. It wouldn’t close fully now.

Having recovered, the beasts whipped around and gave chase. The bars to the door had been warped and weakened. Draven brought his fist down on one of the bars, breaking it from the door. He stabbed the jagged edge directly into the creature’s chest. Its weight fell forward, and Draven had to give a mighty shove to push the worgen back. The beast stumbled, hitting the back of the cell, clutching at the sides of the window. Draven rushed into the cell, landing a heavy kick into the center of the worgen’s stomach. It disappeared out of the cell with a snarl, out the window and into the open air. There was a frenzied howl and a heavy thud.

Both of them were left panting, trying to catch their breath. Draven looked over to Rhonen, shaking his head.

“You sure took your time.”

“Oh, and you were a lot of help?” Rhonen asked. They stared each other down, but Rhonen couldn’t help a smile. Stupidly, on the tail end of a near-death experience, they couldn’t help but laugh a little while they tried to slow their breathing. High stakes moments had a way of bringing the humor out of the darkest of moments.

After a moment, Rhonen regained himself.

“I’d really appreciate it if you took me to the roof now. To find Darius,” he said. Draven nodded.

“Darius… right. Not without my affects,” he replied. Draven headed back out into the hall. At the end of the hallway was a small desk, and a chest behind it. He ran down, landed in front of the chest and threw it open.

“Ah ha! Here we go! Figured the snakes would have sold them,” he said. He took a bundle of things into an adjacent cell. Sounds of rustling and sliding fabric came from within. In moments, Draven emerged again, having transformed into what he must have been wearing upon his arrest.

It wasn’t much cleaner than the prison garb. It was all dark leathers and cloth – a thief’s robes. He had several belts across his waist, and some over his chest. They held holsters for various sharp things, knives for cutting, daggers for killing. And at his waist, holstered, was a reliable looking pistol and ammo box. The other hip held an ornate looking saber. It would have been inherited, it seemed to come from an older generation. It wouldn’t have been something a thief would have had before becoming a thief…

“Better,” he said.

“You look like a right pirate,” Rhonen said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Could you take me to Darius?” Rhonen asked. Draven pushed passed him, not meeting his eyes. He hit the stairs and started to descend.

“Hey!”

“What?”

“You said you would take me to Darius,” Rhonen reminded him. Draven shrugged, still heading down the stairs. Rhonen had to give chase.

“You gave me your word.”

“Those sounds like your words, not mine. I would have never agreed to something so dangerous,” the rogue said.

“It’s a matter of great importance,” Rhonen said.

“I have no doubt of it. But it seems much more important to you than it does to me. Follow the rule of one. Right now, my own self is telling me I need to exit the city. With haste,” he said. By now, they had reached the bottom of the stairs, and the exit out in the prison yard. The door had been closed, and Captain Broderick was nowhere to be seen.

“We’re not just discussing you, Draven. Darius might hold the key to saving this city. He may need our help,” Rhonen said. The grip on his staff was growing tighter; he was running out of time. Draven turned, but his expression was nonchalant.

“Frankly, kid, I would have loved nothing more than to see this city burn years ago. Maybe it’s time for a change, especially in the throne room. Thanks for letting me out, but now I have to look out for myself. You should do the same.” Draven put his hand to the handle. Rhonen reached out a hand to him from the staircase.

“You can’t go out there!”

“I’m tired of people telling me what I can and can’t do. If I want to go out there, then I’m going out there. And nothing can stop me!” he shouted. With a flourish, he threw open the door.

Sounds exploded into the Prison from behind the closed doors. Screams, snarls, crushed bones, gunfire.

“They’re killing us! They’re killing us!” One panicked soldier screamed. He rushed toward the open doorway, but claws seem to grow out of his neck. He fell, revealing a hungry looking worgen standing behind him. With a howl, it charged at the open doorway, eyes on Draven. The rogue slammed the door, putting his back to it. Claws protruded through the wood on either side of his head. He then removed his pistol, firing into the door. The worgen screamed and the claws disappeared. There was the sound of heavy feet padding away from the door and more screams from the outside. Draven was sweating, his breathing hard.

“What is it? Something stopping you?” Rhonen said. He was leaning against the railing, looking smug. Draven frowned, looking between him and the door.

“You said you wanted to get to the upper floors?”

“So you’re helping me now?”

“Of course not, just looking for another way out. Nothing will stop me. Not even an unholy worgen invasion,” he shuddered. Rhonen motioned to the stair. Draven took them, walking passed him, not meeting his eyes. Rhonen couldn’t help but smile. Served him right.

Draven lead them to a different stairway, located at the end of his cell block. It was a good thing he had shown him the way, Rhonen would have never found it on his own.

“The guards use these routes to move between cell blocks more quickly, in case of emergencies,” Draven explained.

“Can it take us all the way to the roof?”

“It should connect to the guard towers overlooking the back end of the prison.”

“You seem to be knowledgeable about the prison, for an inmate,” Rhonen observed. Draven smiled.

“Let’s just say that I never planned on serving my full sentence. There are so many joys of life to explore, none of which can be found in this heap.”

They continued up and up until they were faced with a heavy looking door. Draven put a hand against it,  but it wouldn’t move.

“Is there some other way?” Rhonen asked. Draven put his ear to the door to listen. When he seemed satisfied, he shook his head.

“Certainly not. I always come prepared, lad.” Draven pulled out a set of old looking lockpick tools, setting to work on the inside lock.

“I suppose this was part of your initial plan?” Rhonen said, leaning against the wall.

“A part of it, yes. There’s some improvisation, can’t say I planned for monsters devouring the city. But I always leave some wiggle room,” he said.

“The worgen have been using the rooftops to move around the city. We need to be careful,” Rhonen warned. Draven smiled.

“For savage beasts, they’re pretty smart. The rooftops can take you anywhere in the city. Much more convenient than the roads.”

“You’re an expert, then?”

“Naturally. For work. You understand,” Draven said.

“Oh, of course.”

From below them, there was the sound of pounding. Something heavy broke and fell away, and the prison was filled with a terrifying howl. Rhonen and Draven looked to one another, eyes wide.

“I sincerely hope you’re good at your job,” Rhonen said. Draven was already working on the door again.

“Best in the business.”

There were claws on the steps, something was sniffing around beneath them. A few seconds, and then more claws were on the steps, rushing up toward them.

Rhonen was about to say something else, when he heard the lock engage on the door.

“Got it!” Draven said. He tried the door, but it was heavier than he anticipated, and didn’t move at his touch. It took both of their full weight pressed against the door to get it to move outward. They then swung it back shut. Rhonen thought he saw some shadow making its way up the stairs, and as soon as they had closed the door all of the way, something slammed into it from the other side.

“Like I said, best in the business,” Draven said with a confident smile. Rhonen frowned.

They hadn’t been able to listen before, but somewhere near them, they could hear the sounds of fighting. Men were shouting, and both of them follow the noise over the rooftops of the prison.

They rounded one edge of the prison, and there, by one of the rooftop guardhouses, were a group of men, standing over a few worgen bodies, looking tired.

There was one man, bald, lying on the ground. Another was kneeling over him, looking over a nasty looking wound. One, with long silver-blond hair, was trying to look as intimidating as possible while holding a stout two by four. In the center was man with long red hair and a red beard, one eye covered with a patch. His prison shirt was in tatters, and all he seemed to have on his person was a knife. Still, he held his head high with pride, looking authoritative.

Lord Darius Crowley.

As Rhonen and Draven walked up, the men turned on them, weapons bared. Rhonen  and Draven through their hands up.

“Lord Crowley?” Rhonen asked. He had never actually seen Darius, only heard of him and seen his likeness on propaganda besmirching his name. The red haired man nodded.

“Yes? What are you two doing up here? It’s dangerous.”

“We’re aware. My name is Rhonen, and this is Draven. We were sent by Lord Genn Greymane to find you.” Draven shot Rhonen a pointed look, he wasn’t expecting to be wrapped up in this. But he didn’t correct him. Darius looked surprised.

“Greymane?”

“He wanted us to find you, so we could bring you to him safely. He’s putting aside past grievances, and asks for your help with the worgen crisis. The city needs you, Darius,” Rhonen said. They could only see one eye, but there were a mixture of emotions on the Lord’s face. Happiness, grief, pride, resolve. Finally, Darius nodded, his face confident.

“Greymane’s right. These beasts do not care what our political affiliations are. Gilneas needs to stand together.” Rhonen nodded.

“Then we need to go. With all of us, we should be able to fight our way back down and out into the yard,” Rhonen said. Darius shook his head.

“One of those mangy fleabags got Dempsey real good. We cannot move him until we stabilize his bleeding. A couples of minutes is all we need for Vincent to help him.” Vincent, the man kneeling over Dempsey, nodded.

“It’s serious, he’s lost a lot of blood. But it’s nothing a man need die from. I just need some time,” he said.

As if to contradict the matter, a howl ripped through the night. There were still the sounds of fighting below them, if a little distant. Draven raised an eyebrow.

“I’d rather not be the one to tell you this, but there is little time. The rooftops are overrun. If the man cannot defend himself, then he is lost. We should go,” Draven said. Rhonen frowned.

“This is no time to turn coward, Draven,” Rhonen said. Draven was unmoved.

“I prefer the term realist. And survivalist. We cannot help anyone if we die up here on the rooftops. None of us want to die. It’s a sad fate, but the man does not look fit. Leave him the two by four, cross your fingers, and pray you find him in the morning when this is all settled,” he explained. Darius shook his head.

“You are free to do as you see fit, Draven. But I will not abandon Dempsey. He’s stood by me through these years, even into Stoneward. It would be monstrous to leave him now in his time of need. If you so wish, find some other way down. We only need a few minutes, and then we can all leave together. Unless you think you can battle the worgen by yourself?” Darius proclaimed. His eyes were set, he had made up his mind before Draven had spoke. Draven frowned. He could try and find some way down, but he would need the help getting back, otherwise he risked being overwhelmed. He could sneak down well enough, but he had no idea how well the worgen’s sense of smell was. He was willing to bet it was pretty good.

Another howl pierced the night, closer now. Darius clapped the other armed man on the shoulder.

“Look sharp, Tobias, we’re at it again. You two, either help us or get out of the way,” Darius said. Rhonen made his way over, and with some apprehension, Draven followed suit. He drew out his saber, along with a long dagger. Rhonen knelt beside Vincent, looking over Dempsey. There were long rakes through his prison shirt into his side, back, and arms. His skin was clammy and pale.

“I don’t have much to work with, but I’m dressing the wounds as best I can, trying to get them to stop,” Vincent said in a low voice. He was tearing up the remnants of what must have been Dempsey’s shirt into strips for bandages. Next to him were other, bloodstained layers of fabric. There did appear to be a lot. Rhonen nodded, setting his staff aside.

“Keep dressing the wounds. I’ll do what I can for him,” he said. He put his hands out, and there emerged the same rejuvenating green light he and Celestine has wielded down in the alleyway. The others stared, but only for a moment. Darius called them back to action.

“They’ll be coming, and they won’t be alone. Hold your ground.”

In front of them, the spires of the Light’s Dawn Cathedral still shone brightly. Above them, clouds were beginning to circle, covering the moon, and shrouding the night in deeper darkness. Yet, against the shadow of the church, Rhonen could see shapes mingling among the towers. There was another howl, and long shapes landed heavily on the prison rooftop. In a roaring blur, several worgen appeared from the night, rushing down the group with fangs and claws bared.

“Take ‘em down!” Tobias shouted. The armed men clashed with the worgen. There were four in total, and only three men there to hold them off. Darius leapt at two, distracting them, while Draven and Tobias took one each. Rhonen tried to slow his breathing, tried to clear his thoughts. It was as difficult as it sounds, surrounded by the cacophony of men fighting for their lives and vicious monsters snarling in the night.

Vincent had finished wrapping the wounds, and was looking to his comrades. Rhonen nodded.

“Go! I can look after Dempsey. Even up the odds!” Rhonen said. Vincent looked torn. He was obviously worried about Dempsey, but this was no time to sentiments.

“You can trust me, I’ll take of him. GO!” he shouted. He nodded, putting a rough hand on Rhonen’s shoulder. He pulled a mallet from his waist, something he must have taken from a guard as they left. He leapt into the fray next to Darius, taking the other worgen away from him.

Draven and Tobias ended up back to back, dancing around each other.

“Lovely night for a dance, eh mate?” Tobias asked. His voice was cheerful, he seemed to be enjoying himself, as best he could considering the worgen trying to kill them. Draven shoved the worgen away, sheathing his dagger and drawing his pistol.

“You were next to me. Down in the prison,” Draven said. Tobias shrugged.

“Your voice sounds familiar. Good to know you, Draven,” he said. Draven smiled.

“You as well. I’m going to hold on to those dirty jokes you told me. Especially the one about the gnome and the shoe,” he said. The night exploded with a flash as Draven fired into the charging worgen. It wounded the beast, but didn’t stop it. Draven ducked out of the way of its claws, allowing Tobias an opening to bring his piece of wood down on the beast’s crown. It fell at their feet, limp. Breathing hard, the two men pounded fists.

Rhonen took a deep breath. The gunfire had distracted him, but he was coming back to himself now. He had stemmed the bleeding, but only so long as he was healing him, and he couldn’t keep this up on the move. He had to stem the blood completely, knit the wounds so Dempsey could move.

 _I am one with nature…_ he thought. The moon was fading, but there was still power around them, in the night and on the wind. His hands glowed brighter and brighter until there was a green flash. Dempsey’s wounds knot together in front of him. It wasn’t perfect, there would be serious scars, but they came together and the bleeding finally stopped. Rhonen slumped a little, trying to catch his breath while Dempsey pushed himself up on his hands. They felt around his body, patting his bald head, eyes wide.

“It stopped… I thought it was over for me,” he said. He looked up to what was happening, his eyes turning sad, becoming fearful. He tried to lift himself, but Rhonen put a hand on his chest.

“I need to help them,” Dempsey said.

“You can’t in your condition, you would just slow them down. Catch your breath. I might have healed you, but you could undo it by fighting,” Rhonen said.

Dempsey looked as though he might protest, but Tobias and Draven had made their way over to them, looking proud. Tobias clapped the man on the shoulder.

“Good to see you breathing, mate. Take a load off. You just leave it to us,” he said, flashing a smile. Dempsey nodded. There was another roar from the rooftop, and all heads turned to Vincent and Darius, fighting their own worgen.

They were doing as well as they could. Vincent and his beast were fighting near the edge of the rooftop, Vincent using some light footwork to keep out of the worgen’s range. Darius seemed to have no issue getting in close with his dagger, despite the worgen’s power, it seemed to be having trouble dodging his blade.

The worgen grabbed Vincent, claws biting into the man’s arm. He grimaced, trying to throw the creature off of him. They moved backward together until the worgen lost its footing, slipping over the side of the prison roof, pulling Vincent with him.

“Vincent!” Darius shouted. The worgen slashed down with its claws, but it was tired and wounded. Darius side stepped around to the back of the creature, a powerful hand grabbing the fur on top of its head. He yanked back, pulling the worgen’s head up, ripping the blade across the throat. The clawed hands clutched at its ruined neck, and it collapsed, twitching in the dust.

Darius rushed to the roof edge, peering over. The worgen was dead on the ground far below. Despite Vincent’s wounded arms, the man was holding on with one hand to the edge. Darius threw down his own hand, Vincent throwing his up so they could meet. Darius heaved, but the first pull didn’t bring him up. Another strong hand grabbed Vincent’s, and Darius looked to see Tobias standing at his side. Together, they hauled Vincent back onto the rooftop. They lied on their back, breathing heavy. They couldn’t help but smile.

Draven, Rhonen, and Dempsey made their way over, helping Darius rise. He clapped a gloved hand onto Rhonen’s shoulder.

“We did it. Thanks to you a good man has survived.” Near the edge, they could hear the sounds of battle more clearly from below. It didn’t sound promising.

“But for how long?” Draven asked. There was silence between them, but only for a moment. Darius shook his head, rolling his shoulders.

“No time for fear, gentlemen. There is much left to do tonight.” He made his way across to the far side of the roof, on the opposite side of where Rhonen and Draven had come up. There seemed to be a similar door, which should have lead to another pathway down on the other side of the prison.

“You said Genn was looking for me? I’d like you to take us to him,” Darius said. Rhonen nodded.

“Of course, but we need to get down. The prison was overrun by the time we made it to the roof,” he said. Darius put an ear to the heavy door, closing his eyes.

“Perhaps on the other side, but the two halves of the Prison are not connected. In case there was a breakout on one side, only one side could fail at a time, while the other remains separated. They may not have infiltrated over here.” He tried the door, but it didn’t move. Draven moved to the front of them, setting to work on the door.

Behind them, from the church, more worgen were landing on the rooftop, examining their dead brethren. Vincent looked cautious.

“Any haste you have would be greatly appreciated, sir rogue,” he said. Draven shook his head.

“I have a terrible feeling it’s going to be like this all night. I figured out the other door, this one should be just as simple,” he remarked. This door only took half the time to open, and together, they all slipped into the descending stairwell before the other worgen could notice them, closing the door as they left.


	4. The Cellar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After saving Darius, Rhonen must contend with the old wounds Gilneas has left in its people over the years. Now that they know where the guns are, its up to Rhonen to collect him. But what has happened to Josiah Avery?

The men stopped at the top of the stair to ensure the worgen had not infiltrated the other side of Stoneward. They listened in the quiet darkness, waiting for the sounds of approaching danger. Any snarls, growls, claws raking on the stair.

But there was only silence.

Still, they couldn’t be sure. They made their way down as softly as possible, footfalls hushed on the stone stairway. The central tier of the prison branched off in various directions, leading to the different cell blocks of the prison half. They stopped on the landing, letting out sighs of relief.

“Thank you both. We may have been a man short had you not arrived when you did. We’re forever in your debt,” Darius said.

Draven smiled.

“I prefer gold when I can get it, but gems and precious stones are also acceptable. I tend not to use credit, my interest rates are steep, but we can sign something if that makes you feel more comfortable,” he said. Rhonen elbowed him.

“What? I like to collect on debts fast.”

“There are more important things left to do tonight. You can think about yourself later,” Rhonen said.

“Or now,” Draven replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“Enough Draven.”

“Rhonen – a word, if you please?” Darius asked. Rhonen shouldered passed Draven on the stairs.

“Listen, Rhonen. For the first time since the civil war I agree with Greymane. Now is the time to put aside our quarrel,” he said. His shoulders tense from the fighting, but there was something resembling a smile on his face, a painful mixture of sadness and hope.

“It sure doesn’t look like these beasts much care whether you’re a rebel or a royal. I need you to send word back to Greymane. My men will join his.”

Rhonen blinked, shaking his head.

“Hold on. You’re not coming back with us? To see the King?” he asked. Darius shook his head.

“My men are scattered all across the city. They will be looking for leadership, and I have not seen them in some time. I need to ensure their safety.” Rhonen frowned.

“I understand your concern, but the King requires your arsenal. And quickly,” he said.

“And you shall have it. There’s a safe house not far from here, in Josiah’s cellar. Josiah Avery. My lads and I stashed some heavy artillery there,” Darius replied. Draven nodded.

“Good. Since we have that settled, we should definitely be leaving for places far and away. Places with a lot less fur and teeth perhaps,” he said. Rhonen nodded, he had what he needed. But something didn’t feel right.

“It might be more… significant, to tell the King himself. He may want to hear it from you more than me,” Rhonen said. Darius shook his head. He placed a hand on Rhonen’s shoulder.

“Right now, my place is with my men. Greymane and I… we will have time for our words later. When the time comes. But there are more important matters to attend to,” he said.

“Are there?” Rhonen asked. Darius stopped, mulling over Rhonen’s words. He smiled, his mustache twitching.

“Wisely spoken, but leave the philosophy for the dawn. One we shall all see, as long as I can get to my men, and you can deliver my message. Tell our King that my arsenals are at his disposal.” With that, Darius waved his men forward. They made their way into one of the branching hallways and into the shadows, presumably to find some other way out. The way down was mirrored from the other side, Rhonen could find his way out onto the right side of the prison yard by going down.

Both he and Draven opened the door to the outside yard carefully, to ensure they didn’t repeat the last time they attempted to leave Stoneward. There was still fighting going on, but it had moved to the other end of the yard, where Rhonen had entered. The guards had their backs to them, and were holding a line. They looked tired. The worgen did not.

“Quickly then,” Draven said. They both pushed open the door as softly as they could before sneaking behind the back of the guards. What had been a harrowing entrance had led to a painless exit. Rhonen would have to hold onto that, few things that night were going as smoothly.

King Greymane was where Rhonen had left him, mounted and commanding his guard at the mouth of the yard. He had taken his guard detail and moved them back, further away from Stoneward. It looked like Merchant’s Square all over again.

The King could see them making their way out of the prison. He parted from the guards and rode over to them.

“What news? Were you able to find him?” he asked. Rhonen nodded.

“Yes, sire. He said he needed to rejoin with his men to ensure their safety, but that his arsenal is yours to command. He hid it in Josiah Avery’s cellar,” he said. Greymane looked surprised, and his face parted in a tired smile.

“Avery?! I should have known he was a traitor,” came another indignant voice. Lord Godfrey was riding through the guard detail as well, tailed by some of his own men in black. Greymane’s smile faded.

“Traitor or no, we need those guns,” Greymane said. Godfrey sneered, a gloved hand pulling at his white goatee.

“Indeed. And once the armaments have been confiscated, he’s going to Stoneward with Darius and the rest of his scum.” Greymane shook his head.

“I have decided to pardon Darius and the other members of the Northgate Rebellion for whatever services they are willing to provide tonight. The same will extend to Josiah Avery.” Godfrey’s eyebrows flew up behind his spectacles.

“Pardon?! With all due respect, my Lord, they defied you. Openly! Their rabble rousing started a war that cost lives!” he said. Godfrey looked solemn, his wrinkles set deep on the sides of his mouth.

“It did indeed. But what we commanded, the building of the Wall, was no easy thing to decree. The people have a right to disagree with their sovereign. They did what they thought was right, and now, the Rebellion is over. There is a new threat to face, and it will require all of us to overcome,” the King said. His tone indicated that the matter was final, apparently this was not the first time he had engaged with conversation with Lord Godfrey tonight. It must have been exhausting.

Godfrey couldn’t hide his anger, but he nodded all the same. He looked down to Rhonen from his horse, who was realizing that it was unfortunate to be the next person to talk to Godfrey after he had been denied a wish.

“I’m surprised you returned alive, master druid. But tonight is proving to be unfortunate for all of us,” he said. Rhonen frowned, but it was Draven who stepped up. He put a hand on Rhonen’s shoulder to steady him.

“Oh, I feel the same way. You’re looking well, Vincent, sitting on your high horse back with your guards, hiding while the rest of us work. But perhaps both of our fortunes can change, I’m certainly hoping mine will,” Draven remarked. They hadn’t noticed him before, and Godfrey had to squint behind his glasses. The night was misty, and he was having some trouble seeing.

“Draven… the night gets fouler each passing moment. I’m surprised you escaped,” he said.

“Thanks to the druid, here, I might get to see the light of the day, since the guards were kind enough to abandon me, and only me, to be eaten,” he said. Godfrey smiled. It was even worse that his frown.

“Well at least I can count on the guards to obey me tonight while everyone else defies me at every turn,” he said. Greymane’s face was confused.  


“Vincent, I instructed the guards to release the prisoners so they could assist in taking back Stoneward.” Godfrey nodded.

“And they did as they were instructed. Darius escaped, as did the rest of his friends. But I instructed them to leave one cell unopened, for the good of us all,” he said. Draven’s eyes were wide.

“You told them to leave me to die,” he said. Godfrey shrugged.

“Who would miss Draven the Rat? The only people there when you were being sentenced were myself, the council, and you. Not one soul to your defense. You would have been just another loss among many multitudes this evening. We will mourn their loss, but I would have quietly toasted your grim demise. At least someone would have remembered to care.” Draven’s hand was shaking on the grip of his pistol, but Rhonen gripped the other arm with a firm hand. Greymane also looked amazed.

“I think it’s time you leave us, Lord Godfrey,” he said, his tone level. Godfrey could infer his intention, and he nodded.

“There is much left to do yet, sire. Don’t entertain these two for long, there are much more important matters to see to,” he said. With that, he tipped his hat with a smile to the two of them and rode back, his men in tow.

Greymane shook his head.

“I want to apologize for Lord Godfrey, Draven. He has circumvented my commands for the last time, I assure you.” Draven let goes of his pistol and shoved off Rhonen’s arm.

“Keep your assurances, Greymane. Like it or not, you’re complicit in this,” he accused. Greymane frowned.

“Draven, it was my intention to pardon your crimes as well, for your service. You assisted Rhonen in his duty. I would not be so fast to spurn my praise.” Draven turned away.

“And you can keep your pardon. My services are not yours to command. You can keep your city, its people, this curse… all of it. My destiny is my own henceforth,” he said. He looked to Rhonen over his shoulder, giving boy a crooked smile.

“But you can have my thanks. We did well on the roof. If anything ever good came out of this cesspool, maybe it was you. Good night, to both of you,” he said. He turned away, pulling his ragged cloak further up his neck against the mist. He walked away from them, footfalls silent, until he turned the corner of the street and out of sight.

Greymane took a deep breath, held it, and led it out slowly.

“When is home no longer home?” he asked. It was rhetorical, quiet. Rhonen assumed he wasn’t meant to hear it. Greymane’s eyes focused again on the druid.

“The arsenal Darius speaks of is in the cellar of Josiah’s home, just west of here. It is unnerving that artillery was smuggled inside the city by my enemies, yet it might end up saving Gilnean lives tonight. Find Josiah and requisition the rebel artillery, by order of his true King. We will put the weapons to good use,” he said. Rhonen nodded. He bowed and started heading West.

“And Rhonen!” the King called. Rhonen turned back. Greymane’s eyes were sad, but firm.

“Thank you for your service. Gilneas will not forget this,” he said. Rhonen smiled and nodded.

“Be sure that they don’t, that the druids once again gave to this city. Continue to lead with wisdom, my liege. Perhaps then we shall be better come the dawn than we were at dusk,” he said. Greymane nodded, pulling his horse around and heading back toward his detail. Rhonen made his way into the narrowing streets, looking for Josiah’s place.

Walking away from the prison yard, the sounds of battle receded. The guards were tired, but they appeared to be holding their own. The worgen had to run out eventually. If they could hold them in the prison district, things would be back to normal by morning, right? Rhonen could return to Celestine’s, Graymane and his family would head back to their mansion outside the city. Godfrey would continue to be insufferable and Draven could resume his life of crime, away from the city he so despised.

Draven…

Had he known about Draven and Godfrey, he wouldn’t have let him go his own way before he spoke to the King. Rhonen could understand, Gilneas ran a global trade in judging the decisions of others, for which the city was rich on self righteousness. Their opinions had plagued Rhonen and his master throughout the years growing up – how quickly they forgot what the druids had done for them. When times were dire, they were self effacing.

But when it was convenient, they persecuted relentlessly.

Thus, Rhonen was happy that Draven had seized control of his destiny. But he had to admit, for the first time that night, he had not been alone on some task. Now, he could not help but look over his shoulder when he felt the breeze move, or some distant howl. Draven had made him feel just a little bit safer.

Rhonen wished he had asked for some token of remembrance, but perhaps that was too sentimental.

Josiah Avery’s place appeared around the corner, down a narrow street, an ornate sign hanging above the door. Josiah was a skilled printer, and his news pamphlets and flyers were highly regarded among Gilneans. Because of his profession, he had a large shop with a lot of space. One would have assumed it was for housing his large presses and various chemicals for his trade. Apparently, he had been performing some other ventures on the side out of his cellar. Rhonen tried the store front, but found it locked.

“Hello? Mr. Avery? I come on behalf of his majesty!” Rhonen called. There was no answer, but Rhonen wasn’t surprised. It was possible Josiah was in hiding, if he had not already left the shop in search of safety. Rhonen thought he could hear something nearby, although he wasn’t sure what it was. He circled around to the West edge of the house, where he could see the large cellar doors. Rhonen listened, and he could hear something behind the heavy wood. He banged a fist.

“Josiah? It’s Rhonen! I’ve come on the King’s request, are you there?” he asked again. There was some crashing, and he could hear something shatter. Rhonen frowned. The heavy lock for the door had been opened and cast aside, but when he tried the doors, he found them harder to move than he thought. He glanced around for something he might use for leverage.

Which was when he saw it…

It was dead, canine face glaring up to the sky, mouth open in agony. It was slumped against the alley’s far wall, with cuts across the arms and chest. There were also a couple holes – one in the shoulder, another in its face, just above the eye. There had been a fight, but it seemed that Josiah had won. He must have fled into the cellar.

It took him almost a minute, but he finally managed to pry the doors open, just enough for him to enter. Once he was inside the darkened cellar, Rhonen could see that the struts that held the doors had been inverted, pulling the door closed rather than holding it open. Someone had changed them, and in a hurry. Rhonen made his way down the steps – someone was down there. It was getting darker, and every creak of the wooden steps made sent chills over Rhonen’s skin.

“Josiah? Are you all right?” Rhonen asked. There was a groan, and something else fell over. There seemed to be only one light in the basement, a dim lamp, knocked over but glowing on one of the tables. Rhonen was beginning to realize that he should have probably headed back up just as he reached the bottom of the stairwell.

In the dim light, Rhonen could see the shadowy tools of Josiah’s trade. There were large presses, almost monolithic in the shadows, looking toothy and hungry. There were stacks of papers, wells of inks and stacks of letter presses, cabinets full of spacers and tools Rhonen had no names for.

But there was evidence of a second life as well. Among the various printing odds and ends, there were large and intimidating looking armaments. Rhonen could see crates of ammunition, various fluids and rebel propaganda. There was ammunition for many different sizes of guns, the various guns that went with them, all the way up to ferocious cannons, set back in the furthest corners of the room. They were covered in drapes, but the shape was unmistakable.

And among the artifacts of his life, both public and private, was Josiah Avery himself, standing among the shadows, bent and shaking, hands running all over his body.

“Josiah! Are you-“

“Stay back!” he shouted. His voice was high and panicked and he sounded hoarse. Rhonen clutched his staff closer, taking the last step onto the cellar floor.

“Josiah, what’s the matter? Are you injured? I can help if it’s serious?”

“DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!” he shouted, louder this time. He was angry, and terrified.

Rhonen was doing his best to peer through the shadows, but there was no one else down there. He must have been reeling from his battle with the worgen on the street. Rhonen took a step closer.

Josiah whipped around in a flurry of movement, lashing out with clawed hands. One raked nails across Rhonen’s arm, making him gasp and drawing blood. The other shoved him back with enough strength to throw him off his feet, slamming his back into the stairwell, knocking the wind out of him. He coughed and spluttered, his vision tunneled with pain and panic. He only caught a glimpse of Josiah’s face – flushed, red-eyed, and misshapen in terrible angles, like a mold in the beginning stages of melting. He turned away, stumbling further back into the shadows of the cellar – Rhonen could only make out his silhouette by the flickering light of the lamp.

And so it began.

It only took a few moments, and it was all Rhonen could do but watch in wide-eyed horror. Josiah’s legs stretched, shooting up in height. His feet shifted and bent, and his spine curved down. Josiah screamed with vicious agony as he watched his fingers extend, and his nails lengthen into long, razor-sharp claws. His shoulders broadened along with his chest, while his torso caved and slimmed. Bones cracked and broke before setting. Josiah’s huge hands gripped his head, claws digging into his scalp until he could take no more. He threw his head back, exposing a new, canine face with a ghastly howl. His body was now dark with fur, which scattered his shadow, letting him bleed back into the shadows.

There was quiet in the cellar, the only two sounds coming from Josiah, his ragged breaths low and guttural – Rhonen, desperately trying to catch his own breath.

Josiah seemed to come back slowly, or whatever was left of Josiah, his large face examined his new clawed hands between deep, hoarse breath. Rhonen coughed, spitting onto the stairs. The worgen turned on him, pupils glowing in a rainbow of colors against the dim light. The color vanished as its pupils shrank until Rhonen could no longer make them out. Josiah fell forward on all fours, letting out a vicious snarl. He threw his head back in a ravenous howl before throwing himself into the air, claws out. Rhonen shut his eyes against his impending death.

The world exploded next to him.

The air left Josiah in a yelp, and his body flew backward. It slammed against the back wall, and he collapsed in a heap, dead on impact.

Rhonen turned from Josiah’s crumpled body to the stair. Standing on the steps, smoking rifle in hand, was a woman in a long dress. Beside her were two heavy looking mastiffs, sniffing the air and growling at the body. Her skin was fair, and her hair dark and long. She was wearing a red rose in her hair, and looked like she had seen a ghost.

“Who... who are-?” Rhonen tried to ask. His words were coming back to him, slowly and with much coughing. The woman’s eyes were on him, dark and wide.

“He turned into one of them… didn’t he?” She asked. Rhonen took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded.

“You… you saved my life. He was in the middle of changing, he attacked me. I would have been dead if it wasn’t for you,” Rhonen said. He was grateful, but the woman was watching the body still, eyes going back and forth from him to Rhonen.

“Where’s Darius Crowley?” she asked. Rhonen blinked.

“What?”

“Where’s Darius? One of Greymane’s guards told me he may be here, retrieving his cannons and ammo. Is he here?” she asked. Rhonen shook his head.

“He’s mistaken. Darius is in the city, collecting his men, to ensure their safety. I was sent to collect his arsenal so the King could retrieve it,” Rhonen explained. The woman still hefted the rifle, but her shoulders slumped.

“Oh… I see. But you saw him? Him and his men? Is he all right? Has he been injured?” she asked. Rhonen shook his head.

“He’s well, from what I could tell.  Darius was fighting valiantly alongside his men, and there were no injuries I could see. He seems determined to help the King now that the city is under attack,” Rhonen explained. The woman nodded, her shoulders relaxing a little. She still hefted the rifle.

“Then this is my charge. I’m Lorna Crowley. It’s good to meet you,” she said. Rhonen frowned.

“His daughter?” he asked. She nodded. “I’m Rhonen. I helped Darius escape, on the King’s command,” he said. Lorna’s face brightened, and she smiled, taking Rhonen’s hand.

“Thank you. I have been worried about my father all night. Your words are a small comfort. You have my gratitude,” she said.

“We’re going to need some help getting the weapons and munitions out of this cellar – you and I can’t do it on our own. The King will have men ready to help us I think. This should be more than enough to hold the incoming worgen off,” she continued.

“But there are worgen hiding in the alleyways,” she said, changing her tone, “we will need to keep them distracted while we unload the cargo up to the street. I’ll take the dogs to hunt them down if you would help the guards bring the cargo up?” she asked. Rhonen nodded.

“Of course. I’ll do what I can,” he said. He winced, his fingers gingerly touching his arm. There were long scratches across it, and it was starting to itch and burn. Rhonen frowned, one of his hands glowing green. He reached out, cleared his mind. The cellar was illuminated with green light, and Lorna watched with interest while Rhonen tried to heal the wound.

This time felt different, he was having trouble focusing. He kept trying, but was getting annoyed. He was doing what he had done before that evening, but something about the wound wasn’t allowing it to heal, at least not properly. His magical touch couldn’t seem to grasp the edges of the wound, or any part of it, to pull it together. It kept slipping out of his grasp.

Finally, Rhonen  stopped. He had stemmed the bleeding, but the cuts were still there, angry and red. Lorna stepped forward and leaned down. With some impressive strength, she tore into the fabric of her dress from the bottom, wrapping Rhonen’s arm with the impromptu bandage.

“That was something, but don’t tire yourself. This should keep it safe until you can get it looked at. Do you think you can still help us?” she asked. The question was loaded, her tone implied she assumed he could, or that she could make him help whether he felt able or not. Rhonen understood, tonight was not a night to be weak. So many things still needed doing.

“I will do what I can,” he said. Lorna nodded.

“Then let’s get started. There’s a lot of night left until dawn,” she said. Rhonen moved to the stair, but Lorna didn’t move for a moment. Her eyes were serious, and Rhonen followed them to Josiah’s cooling body.

“How do we begin to fight an enemy that can do this to us?” she asked. The question was directed at no one, except the shadows still looming in the cellar.

The overturned lamp, that had been burning so weakly while Josiah had panicked alone, flickered from the breeze coming through the open cellar door. The shadows swayed and consumed the cellar as the light finally guttered out.


	5. Krennan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After retrieving the guns, Rhonen is left with volatile information. What's more, they may have found the salvation of the city. The only problem? He's surrounded on all sides by bloodthirsty beasts.

It had been a tense operation.

When Rhonen had returned to Avery’s shop with the King’s men, they had started to remove the arms from the cellar slowly. Lorna had hunted through the alleyways with her dogs and rifle, and every few minutes Rhonen could hear a loud shot, followed by the baying of dogs. Every instance could have been the end for Lorna, but then he would hear another shot, someplace else nearby, and continue to pull cannons up.

Before they had begun, Rhonen warned them about Josiah Avery.

“What you will see is… unsettling. But you are the King’s men, and this is no time for fear. Steele yourselves to your task, and leave the implications to your superiors,” he said. The men had no reason to follow his orders, but his tone was resolute. They did as they were told.

No one touched Josiah’s body – they barely looked at it as they set about to the task of bringing all of the heavy equipment up to the street.

“It’s time, Rhonen. We’ll take it from here,” came a voice. Lorna was walking up. She smelled of gunpowder, and her dogs looked a little bloodstained. Despite the gruesome scene, she looked as well as anyone that night.

“How are the streets?” Rhonen asked. Lorna frowned.

“Packed, if you’ll pardon the expression,” he said. She shook her head.

“I keep finding more and more… some wear nothing, but others have small things, tokens from an old life. From our lives. I wish I didn’t have to take them down, but what choice do we have?” she asked. She wasn’t looking for an answer – Rhonen had none to give. Her dark eyes met Rhonen’s.

“We can no longer keep this a secret. The King must know. Tell Greymane that my father’s arsenal will be at his disposal, along with everything else. I’ll be behind you. At least, there’s more than enough firepower to blow the worgen from here to the North Sea,” she said. At one point, her words would have been triumphant and full of courage. But blowing up worgen had lost its luster. The question carried so much more weight now. Rhonen placed a gentle had over hers, and she squeezed it, just for a moment. Rhonen itched at his arm and headed further West with the guard, and an arsenal large enough to knock out half a city.

They didn’t have to wait long before running back into the King’s detail. There were shouts, sounds of pounding wood and nail, and the ever present snarls and howls from the worgen. They came from behind the makeshift barricade they have been building, overlooking a wide street. Over the top of the wall, Rhonen could see flashes of glowing eyes and raised fur. There appeared to be a lot of them.

King Greymane was among the regimen, shouting orders.

“Higher! We need another layer! Everything that isn’t bolted down, take it for wood. They cannot get through!” he shouted. Men were busy breaking down anything that could be held: tables, chairs, desks, parts of walls, sculpted doors. Anything and everything that could separate them from the worgen. Claws raked against the other side of the barricade. Every time a snarling head appeared, there was a volley of rifle fire that would send the next wave of worgen diving for shadows.

“My Lord!” Rhonen had to shout. King Greymane glanced back, heading over to him on his mount. “My Lord, Josiah’s cache has been recovered. We bring aid,” he said. The guard detail were beginning to round the curb, large cannons in hand. The men shouted with excitement as they began to mount the weapons behind the barricade and load them. Greymane smiled behind his grey beard.

“I knew Darius would come through. His weapons will be more than useful to us,” he said. King Greymane looked pleased, but when Rhonen didn’t share his enthusiasm, his face hardened.

“There’s something else sir,” he said. Quickly, he told him about finding Josiah’s place, the dead worgen outside the cellar, and going down into the darkness.

“Josiah was down there, but he wouldn’t look at me,” he said. Greymane frowned.

“Was he injured?” he asked. Rhonen shook his head.

“I’m not sure. It was dark, I could barely see Josiah. He was scared – terrified. He asked me to go, but I was worried for him, and thought maybe I could heal what was bothering him. When he shouted at me, I should have gone, but there was something about his voice,” he said. He rubbed at his bandaged arm.

“He turned on me, too quick for me to stop him. He scratched me with his claws, and threw me back with more strength than any man should have,” Rhonen said. The King’s eyes were wide.

“His claws?” he asked. Rhonen nodded. His face was solemn and set.

“I saw it, my Lord. He changed into one of them, right there in front of me. It was… horrible. He was screaming, it looked agonizing. It only took a few moments, and then he was one of them. A worgen, dressed in Josiah’s ragged clothes. If it hadn’t been for Lorna, I’d be dead in that cellar,” he explained. The King’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. For the first time that night, the King looked shaken. He must have seen the look on Rhonen’s face, because he changed his expression, trying to appear calm.

“But… how?” he asked. Rhonen shook his head.

“I don’t know, sir. But he definitely changed. Lorna said she has seen more with tokens from the city. It’s possible they were taking them, but they don’t seem to be interested in material things. They’re crazed with hunger, worgen have no need for clothes or coins,” he said. Greymane nodded. He looked out over the makeshift barricade, out into the legions of worgen piling up on the other side. How many of them were from the forest? And how many were not? The King turned back to Rhonen, giving him a stern look.

“I appreciate what you have done for us, Rhonen, truly. But until we know more about how this can happen, I need you to swear to me to keep this between us. I know you can’t speak for Lorna, but no one can yet know that this is possible. We have to save the city first, and deal with the repercussions of the invasion later. Do you understand?” he asked. Rhonen’s frowned.

“My Lord… Genn, your people have a right to know,” he said. He used his name, trying to reason with him. The King didn’t seem to mind, but his face was still hard.

“They do, and they will know, when the time is right. But I can’t have my men worried about that right now. They need to be able to do what is necessary, for the good of us all. Trust in your King, and his many years of experience. You must keep this to yourself, just for now, until we have more information. Are we clear, master druid?” he asked again. Rhonen thought about it for a long moment, but nodded.

The King sighed, shoulders slumped. He looked back out to the worgen, and to the mounting cannons.

“All the years after the war and Darius was still hiding enough firepower in that cellar to level half the district,” he mused. The cannons were being loaded and primed, and he shook his head.

“It might have to come to that, unfortunately,” he said. From the battlements, another steed was riding up, dark and sleek. Lord Godfrey ignored Rhonen, although the druid was sure he could see him. He looked to his King expectantly.

“Sire, the cannons are primed and ready to fire,” he said.

“Civilian! Man over board!” Someone shouted. A guard on the battlements was overlooking the worgen-crowded street with a spyglass, peering further down the row. Greymane frowned, pulling out his own spyglass from his cloak. From his mount, he could see over the barrier, and as he scanned the street, he could see him.

“By the Light… it’s Krennan,” he said. Godfrey frowned.

“Krennan Aranas? He’s out on the street?” he asked. Greymane nodded.

“Poor man climbed a tree, but it’s not going to hold them off for long…” he said. His voice trailed off, and his eyes dropped to the ground as he thought.

“We can’t open fire just yet, not with Krennan out there,” he said. Godfrey’s eyebrows went up behind his spectacles.

“But sire! The worgen grow in number every moment, they’ve started coming from places within the city, from somewhere we cannot discover. They will overwhelm the barricade any moment. Lives will be lost! We cannot halt for one lone civilian!”

“He’s not just any civilian,” Greymane said, “Krennan Aranas is one of the most brilliant alchemists this world has known.” Godfrey gripped the reigns of his mount tighter.

“If he was really so brilliant, he wouldn’t be trapped out there among the beasts. We cannot delay any longer. We must clear a path through or risk-“

“One of his potions saved my daughter,” Greymane interrupted. Godfrey was about to continue, but the comment brought him up short.

“Tess was dying soon after she was born. She wasn’t crying, her face was blue, but nothing seemed to be helping. We summoned Krennan, and he seemed to know precisely what it was. The potion he administered saved her life. On my honor, I cannot abandon him to die,” Greymane said. The rest of the party looked solemn. Godfrey looked bored.

“Sire, I acknowledge that the man’s life has worth to you. But what, pray tell, are we going to do about it? You can’t very well risk your life to save him,” he said. Greymane frowned. Rhonen might have said Godfrey could volunteer, but he already suspected the answer. He turned and looked to the barricade. He could see them out there, stalking about, waiting.

What choice did he have?

“I will do it,” Rhonen said. Greymane closed his eyes.

“I cannot ask you to do this, Rhonen.”

“I don’t see any other alternative. You won’t go, Godfrey’s a Lord, your men are manning the barricade. If you want to save Krennan’s life, there is no other way,” he said. Godfrey had every opportunity to speak up, but he held his tongue. Greymane sighed, a smile on his face.

“You are proving to be indispensable, master druid. I have no words to express my thanks,” he said. Rhonen rubbed is arm.

“He’s running out of time. I’m not sure what the plan is.”

“Take my horse. We will do what we can to cover you from the barricade. Whatever happens, Krennan must live. Ride swift, and thank you,” he said. Greymane dismounted, helping Rhonen up into the saddle. Godfrey looked like he was going to say something, probably about Kings helping anyone onto a horse, but a harsh look silenced him. Rhonen tugged the reigns, Greymane’s steed was a calm mount, despite the proximity of the worgen. It was the only way he was going to survive this.

“My men will clear the first wave from the wall. The sharpshooters will guard the path. Can you jump a horse?” he asked. Rhonen nodded.

“Celestine and I always ride through the Blackwald and in the wilderness when we look for ingredients. I can do what’s required,” he said.

“When the men fire, that’s your cue. Guards! Weapons ready!” he shouted. His voice boomed, startling some of the guards. Greymane was soft-spoken most of the time, but there was some ferocity in him yet.

The guards brought their rifles to bare over the barricade, directly into the faces of the snarling worgen. Rhonen couldn’t see any of them wearing clothes… maybe Josiah was a fluke?

“Take aim!” The guards primed their rifles. Rhonen gripped the reigns tighter.

“FIRE!”

Shots blasted away the silence, and smoke billowed from the barricade. There were yelps and whines from beyond the wall. Rhonen kicked the horse forward, charging the wall. He kept kicking and yanked up on the reigns, and the horse leapt over the wall, landing heavy on the other side.

The situation on the other side was dire. Worgen bodies were strewn about the ground ahead, some slumped against the wall, claws forever dug into the wood. But there were still worgen clogging the rest of the street, down to the courtyard. From that single tree, a man was hanging onto the top branches for dear life. Worgen had surrounded the trunk, and were trying to climb their up. They could get close, but they were too heavy for the lighter branches, which would snap and drop them back down.

Between them, there were hordes of them, snarling and quarrelling and howling at the moon. Still deaf from the gunshots, Rhonen kicked the horse forward. Any other horse would have hesitated, or reared. Greymane’s steed had seen battle – used to the smell of gunpowder and blood. He charged forward, breath coming fast but controlled. Before the nearby worgen could register what was happening, they were already passed, or trampled beneath the horse’s hooves.

As they drew nearer to the courtyard, the worgen became aware for their presence. They turned on the horse and swung and snarled as they rode passed. One had prepared, slinking back and then flinging itself up, claws swinging out at Rhonen. Behind them, there was a shot, and the worgen’s eyes went wide. It hit the side of the horse, but not hard, and fell to the ground, dead. Rhonen put his hand up, a thanks for the shooter that saved his life. He whacked at another with his staff, driving it back.

Finally, they were below the tree.

“Jump on! Quick!” he called. He swung out with the staff, bashing away any worgen who came close. He had no time to conjure any magic, but there were shots behind him, and worgen dropped in a wide circle around them.

But there were plenty more waiting in the wings, and with fresh food so near, the worgen would soon overwhelm them.

Krennan was above them, but started to descend quickly while Rhonen gathered some magic. With some more space, he could shoot off some Moonfire to keep them at bay, and one or two Starsurges. Krennan made it to the lowest branch and dropped, landing with a huff into the saddle behind Rhonen.

“Ouch… Ride! Ride!” he shouted. Rhonen kicked the steed again, and they charged back up the street.

The return journey would be more difficult. Greymane had cleared the first line of worgen with a volley. Now they were in the line of fire, and they would just have to skirt through the worgen to make it back. They charged as fast as the horse could carry them, while sharpshooters picked off the ones they could. Rhonen’s eyes were only on the wall, when he saw Godfrey step to the front rank. He drew two pistols, which he leveled down below them. He fired numerous shots in rapid succession, clearing the front row of worgen away from the front of the wall with a short-range volley.

“Jump!” he called, spectacles askew. Rhonen tugged on the reigns again, and the horse heaved a mighty leap over the wall. A few worgen leapt with them, but were dropped from the carefully aimed shots of the sharpshooters. They landed on the other side, along with the lifeless bodies of the pursuing worgen. Once on the other side, Godfrey took command.

“We’ve got Krennan! Fire at will!” he shouted. The primed canons were leveled, and the guards dug in. The fuses were lit and cords pulled, and the cannons fired in a mighty explosion. There were loud thumps and explosions, and snarls and yips from the other side of the wall. There was another pull from the canons, and more shots rent the night. Rhonen and Krennan climbed down from the horse, and as soon as both were on the ground, the man threw his arms around Rhonen in a tight embrace.

“Thank you, my boy, thank you! I owe you my life!” he said. Rhonen could only embrace him back. They had made it back safely.

Krennan pulled away, and that was the first time Rhonen had actually seen the man. He was much older, older than Graymane. His hair, beard, and mustache were all a bright silver and there were deep set wrinkles his face. His eyes were bright and kind, his hands firm but gentle. The King’s hand clapped on Krennan’s shoulder, and he turned and embraced the King as well.

Godfrey was walking back from the barricade, holstering his pistols. Rhonen frowned, bowing at the waist.

“Thank you very much. You helped us make it over safely,” he said. He didn’t call him ‘Lord’, he wasn’t sure he had earned that. Still, he had to show his gratitude. Although Godfrey could obviously see his display, he ignored it.

“We’ve done all we can here - and have bought some time for the citizenry. It won’t be long until the worgen return in force,” he said. The King nodded.

“We’ll fall back to Greymane Court to the West,” he said, mounting back up on his horse, “it’s the last place we can hold without being trapped like fish in a barrel. Men! Pull the canons back. We have to get them to the Court. Move out!” he said.

Guards moved forward to the barricade, firing into the group of worgen as they moved forward, trying to cross the wall. They covered the other guards as they pulled the canons back from the walls.

As they started moving away from the barricade, Krennan put his hand on Rhonen’s arm.

“That looks serious. Are you all right?” he asked. Rhonen nodded. It did hurt a little, it still stung, and it was itching like crazy. Now that he brought it back to his attention, it was hurting more than before.

“Yes… I was attacked, when I went to retrieve Josiah Avery,” he said. Krennan nodded, his face grim. Rhonen swallowed.

“Do you… know?” he asked. Krennan nodded again.

“They chased me up the tree… I was trying to help the injured, the people I found. All of them turned on me… they chased up me the tree. They were still clothed in the trappings of their lives,” he said.

They started off toward Greymane court together, but they didn’t say anything more.

What else was left to say?


	6. Light's Dawn Cathedral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhonen and the others make it back to Greymane court, but the worgen are quickly claiming the city. In order to save the citizens from their dark fate, a terrible decision must be made. It's now or never, do or die.
> 
> (Work's been insane, and I've been so tired. It took me forever to get around to this, so I apologize for the wait. Thanks for sticking around if you did)

The silence didn’t last for long.

As the group made their way West, they could still hear the sounds of worgen crawling over the city. But as they neared the next courtyard, the sounds became louder.

They could hear the screams.

“They’re changing us! They’re changing us!” It was a woman, one among a large group of Gilnean citizens. They had been fleeing with the rest, but had been separated when the worgen attacked. The group stopped, and the free guards raised their swords and shields to defend them.

But this was different. The worgen here were covered with evidence of what they had been before. They wore clothes, in the Gilnean style. Some still had their hats on, if a little ragged. They still wore watches and bracelets and had handkerchiefs in their breast pockets. They wore coats and dresses and nightgowns and shredded shoes.

But perhaps more frightening was the other half of the group. The ones that could escape made it into the safety of the King’s guard, while they fought the worgen back and Rhonen cast a few spells to keep them away. But there were more civilians in the group that didn’t rush to safety. The worgen ignored them as they stumbled about near the back of the courtyard. They were clutching at their heads and chests, and then, one by one, they changed. It was just like Josiah Avery, repeated over and over. They clawed and cried at various wounds inflicted by the worgen, before howling to the night sky in agony when they shifted from their human form into worgen. Their eyes were wide with fury and hunger, and they were lost to the curse. They fought back the worgen, but the guards hesitated.

“Retreat! Head for Greymane Court! Retreat!” the King called. Rhonen glanced around as they all fled, an d his eyes fell on Godfrey. For the first time that night, the man had nothing to say. They had yet to tell him what was happening, and he was finally beginning to grasp the power of the enemy they faced. Rhonen couldn’t see his eyes behind his spectacles, but he continued to glance back as he rode away with them. He was nervous.

Greymane Court was better than the previous courtyard, but not by a great margin. There was no eminent worgen threat here, the people were safe for now. But the group was listless, with many pacing about, looking serious and forlorn.

They knew.

All of them must have seen the change, in some way, over the course of the night. They weren’t just restless, they were hopeless. There was Gwen, trying to appear tough, but her rapier was point down in the dirt. There was the same woman he had seen before, crouched on a box outside the military district. She was crouched on a barrel this time, her knees by her head.

And there among them, Rhonen could see the silvery hair of his master, Celestine. Their eyes met, and they ran to each other, throwing their arms around one another in a loving embrace.

“Master! It’s good to see you!” he said. Celestine didn’t say anything, just held him. When they pulled away, Rhonen gave her a serious look.

“I thought you would have been evacuated by now. You should be far away from here,” he said. Celestine shook her head, and there was sadness in her grey eyes.

“We tried to escape, but there were just so many of them. Those who fled with us began to change, and the group panicked. We separated and had to turn back, the way was blocked. They were coming out of the houses in vast numbers, there was no way to escape unless we turned back. Now… we don’t know how to get out of the city,” she said. Rhonen nodded, holding her weathered hands in his. She looked him over, then started when she saw his arm.

“Rhonen… What happened?” she asked. There was no point in keeping it from her.

“I went to fetch guns from Josiah Avery, after I rescued Darius Crowley from Stoneward. He changed, in his cellar. He attacked me, but Lorna saved my life,” he said. Celestine still looked worried.

“How do you feel?” she asked. Rhonen nodded.

“I’m fine, Master, don’t worry,” he said with a smile. The cuts beneath the bandage were still itching, and burning, which was new. But there was no reason to tell her that, what words were there to say? She could tell he was lying, he wasn’t trying very hard. But he had already tried to heal the wound, and so had she, over the course of the night. There was nothing they could do but hope.

From outside the group, among the King’s men, Rhonen could hear Greymane’s words.

“We’re left with very few choices. What we do next will be a critical decision,” he said.

“Then we shall make that decision together,” came a voice. There were stairs that led below the square to the sewage and waterway, and from them, Darius Crowley emerged, followed by several men. He approached the King, although he didn’t bow. Greymane dismounted from his horse, and took the man’s hand in his in a firm shake.

“It’s good to see you Darius,” he said.

“Your Majesty,” Darius said. King Greymane looked over his people, tired and afraid. The night was wearing on, and had begun its own transformation into a grey morning. He spoke so his voice carried.

“If we can make it past the gates into Duskhaven, we’ll be safe. The eastern mountains are virtually impassable,” he said. Darius nodded, looking serious.

“We need to keep the worgen’s attention in the city, Genn. It’s the only shot we have for the survivors to make it to Duskhaven.”

From another mount, the King’s son emerged from behind his guard detail. Liam looked worn like the rest of them, but he looked courageous and resigned.

“I’ll stay behind with the Royal Guard, father. It is my duty to Gilneas.” Darius shook his head, crossing his arms.

“Not a chance, boy. Gilneas is going to need its King’s undivided attention. Can’t have your father wondering whether his child is alive or not,” he said. Liam looked like he might protest, but Darius put a hand up.

“My men and I will hole up inside Light’s Dawn Cathedral. I’ve already given the order and the canons are on their way,” he said. He turned to Greymane, patting him on the shoulder with a sad smile.

“Lead our people well, Genn.” Greymane’s brow was furrowed, and he bowed his head to Darius.

“We were fools to take up arms against each other, Darius. The worgen would have never stood a chance.” The moment passed quickly, and Greymane remounted.

“All right. While Darius has them distracted, we make for the city gates, and then onward to Duskhaven. We need to get there before morning, and move under the cover of dark. Let’s move!” he commanded. Rhonen was turning to follow Celestine, but as he did, his arm burned with a new fervor. A shudder ran all the way through his shoulders and back, and he had to grit his teeth against the pain. Celestine stopped, looking worried.

“Rhonen!”

“It’s all right. It will pass,” he said. He took many long, deep breaths, and the pain subsided some. But not all the way, and his arm was still burning. The skin looked red and puffy from beneath the bandage.

In that moment, Rhonen knew.

“Master, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for all you have done for me.” Celestine shook her head, her face serious.

“Rhonen, no. I forbid it. You must come. Even if the worst should happen, there are things we can try. We can find a way,” he said. Rhonen shook his head.

“There isn’t time, and they can’t wait for us to make a decision. It’s already been made.” Celestine sniffed.

“Rhonen, please?”

“I’ll be fine, Master. They need all the help they can get. What kind of apprentice would I be if I didn’t ensure my Master’s safety, with everything that I have?” He took Celestine’s hand and kissed it softly.

“You have been the only family I have ever known, and I will love you forever and onward for what you gave me,” he said. He looked to his King, and gave him a level look.

“Take care of them, your Majesty,” he said. The King nodded. While Celestine was looking to Greymane, Rhonen pulled away from her grasp, and headed back toward Darius. Comforting hands took hold of Celestine, and held her even when she tried to pull away.

“I love you too, Rhonen! Remember that!” She called. Rhonen nodded, and the group began their solemn journey away from the city. Rhonen watched them until they were out of sight.

Darius was behind him as he turned around, and his one eye looked worried.

“You don’t have to do this, Rhonen. You’ve done more than enough already,” he said. Rhonen put a hand on his arm, taking a deep breath. It was hot to the touch, feverishly so. He could feel himself starting to sweat. Whatever service he could provide now was essential.

“I’m prepared, sir. I will stay here, and do what I can,” he said. Darius nodded.

“I would be a fool to turn you away. I’ve received word, my men have fortified their position inside the Cathedral and are ready for whatever comes next. I’m about to head there and take as many of these flea-ridden devils with me as I can. You’re welcome along for the ride,” he said. Rhonen nodded.

“Then let’s move out. Together,” Darius said. Horses had been brought up, and he mounted one, a dark looking steed. He looked steady and capable. He would have to be if they were to survive.

Around them, others were also mounting up. They were pairing off, with two people to a steed. Darius put a hand down to Rhonen.

“I could use another rider, boy.” Rhonen took his hand, and made his way into the saddle behind Darius. The man handed Rhonen back what looked like red sticks, wrapped in twine, with a fuse at the top.

“Flares,” Darius explained, “with enough force to get the attention of any worgen you throw it too. There’s a lot, make sure you use them. And remember, every worgen we keep inside is one less worgen going after our loved ones. Understand?” he asked. Rhonen’s eyes were wide, and he nodded.

“Um… we’re getting them to follow us?” he asked. Darius nodded.

“The guns are positioned at the cathedral. We get them to follow us and thin them out there with all of our firepower. If we make it that far, of course.” Rhonen took a deep breath, and Darius laughed.

“We’re going to get through this. You’ve done splendid so far. No place for fear now.” Darius turned his steed toward his men.

“We’re heading over the waterway. Ride straight into them! Make noise! Grab as many as you can! Ride swift and I’ll see you all at Light’s Dawn! For Gilneas!” he called. There was a roaring cheer from all of them, and they kicked and spurred their horses down into the waterway and back up again onto the other side. The horses jumped the wall, onto the other street.

They were everywhere.

There could be no illusions about what was happening now. Almost all of the worgen on the street and in the neighboring courtyard were dressed in Gilnean attire. Some looked more ravaged than others, but very few seemed to have come from the outside wood. Whatever was happening was spreading inside the city.

Rhonen hefted the flares. That was most important right now. He could deal with the rest later.

Through the street, they charged through the worgen, trampling some and enraging others. When they came to the courtyard, they could see that Light’s Dawn was near, looming tall just a few streets away. Rhonen didn’t have anything to light the flares with, but he snapped his fingers, generating the least amount of Moonfire he could from his finger tips. The fuse sparked and fizzed to life, it would work well enough to ignite the powder inside. He hurled the explosive into a crowd of worgen, who were milling about, looking hungry. They started when it hit the ground, and more when the charge exploded.

Fire spread along the ground in a wide radius, and flames licked the sides of the buildings. It killed or injured the worgen directly next to the blast, but many of the others were simply singed or spooked. They howled and snarled and gave chase after the horses, and Darius put on another burst of speed.

“Keep it up! We need as many as will follow! Don’t let up!” he shouted back to Rhonen. The boy nodded, hurling more flares, lighting several fuses at the same time.

They made their way out of the streets into the gardens directly surrounding Light’s Dawn Cathedral, pursued by a pack of rabid worgen. If they thought the streets were bad, they hadn’t seen anything yet. The courtyard was completely overrun, worgen fighting and running amongst one another, trying to catch the scent of food. As they entered into the courtyard, Rhonen and the other flare-throwers bombarded as many worgen as they could. After just a few flares, the courtyard was in flames, the delicate flowers all alight. The worgen all across the courtyard took notice and gave chase, trampling over one another to get to them.

Beside them, another steed holding two men was overrun. A worgen leapt onto the horse and dragged it down, and the men with it. In moments, they were overcome by swarming beasts, and their screams echoed through the narrow buildings, and drowned by the howls of wolves.

With almost the entire courtyard chasing after them, over hedges and walls, and more worgen arriving by the minute, they turned toward the Cathedral proper. As Darius drew closer, he waved down his men. They had pointed the canons outward in all directions on the wide steps of the church, leading up to the entryway.

“Make ready to fire!” he called. The dark horse charged up the stairs of the church. Behind them was a mass of screaming claws and teeth, claws clicking on the stairs as they made their first ascent toward the church.

“FIRE!” Darius called. The last of the men who had accompanied them made it up the stairway, and the canons let loose, thumping one after another. There were howls and moans, and billowing smoke filled their view. What Rhonen could see looked devastated, with parts and viscera strewn about the once beautiful gardens. Still, more came through the smoke, and there will still more beyond, a seemingly endless number of them.

“Fire at will!” Darius called. The canons let loose in quick succession, filling the night with blasts of powder and smoke. For each that dropped, another two seemed to take its place, some mangy from the forest, others fresh and dressed in the livery of Gilneas.

After just a few volleys, it was clear they weren’t taking down as many as was needed.

“Captain! Ammo’s running out!” someone called. Rhonen looked back, and it was true – their cache was dwindling fast. Eyes turned to Darius. His face was set, and he nodded to himself. He had made a crucial decision.

“Inside! Fall back inside! Tobias! Hold the door, don’t let them any of them in!” he said. Tobias took one side of the door, Darius took the other. The men around the, strangers and familiar faces, rushed inside as fast they could. Behind them, the baying and howling was growing louder and more ravenous. The shots got louder as they entered the smaller space, filing back into the main chapel.

“We’ve got a good chokepoint here,” said Darius, “ Feel free to say a prayer – oh, sorry. Probably not your sort of thing, druid.” Rhonen shook his head.

“Take courage and let’s kill these mutts,” Darius commanded.

Inside, men were hustling about, moving things and prepping their guns. Among them was a dark figure, standing at the alter at the bottom of the stairs. He looked haggard, and turned to face them as they entered.

“So, it’s as bad as it sounds out there?”

“Draven?!” Rhonen called. He had a strange urge to hug him, it was nice to see a familiar face, but the howling behind them brought him back. They moved further inside.

“Move the pews in front of the door! Barricade!” shouted one of them.

“Wait!” Darius and Tobias were rushing through the entryway, followed closely by several snarling worgen. Shots rang out and blades were drawn, and they clashed with them. The other half of the men began upending the pews, moving them in front of the door. They had to keep moving it as one worgen after the next rushed into the chapel. There were two for every man – it was becoming dire.

Draven was moving back toward the alter, and Rhonen followed him.

“What happened? You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. Draven fired, Rhonen casted Moonfire, and they switched sides.

“I did try and leave, but every entrance was crawling with monsters. Every exit was overrun… I thought I could hunker down somewhere until it blew over and sneak out later. I didn’t think you would bring them all here,” he said. They switched sides again, throwing to worgen to the ground. Their packmates clamored over them.

“I’m sorry. We had no idea anyone else was still here. This was the most defensible position, we’re making sure the civilians have time to escape,” Rhonen said. Draven shrugged.

“Didn’t really think it would work anyway. They would have sniffed me out eventually. Maybe it’s better it didn’t take all night,” he said.

They were still coming in, and Darius was moving up the stairs to the annex of the alter. Rhonen followed him to the stop, while the men spread out around them at the bottom of the stair, guarding the way up.

The barricade had failed before it began, there was never enough time to mount defenses with the worgen filing in so quickly. They were back into a tight corner, and more were coming, but that had been the point. The canons outside had been their one hope, but there were just too many. Rhonen found himself asking the essential questions: had it been worth it vs. was there anything else that could be done?

Rhonen took a deep breath, with the fire and blood around him, and felt like there was one more thing to do.

The Cathedral wasn’t open to the sky, but he knew of a spell that may not require it. He couldn’t cast off enough Moonfire or Starsurges to take them all, and even if it could, it still may not be enough. But he could give on more spell, with everything he had left.

_You are among the stars. The stars are all around you._

His hands came together, and the room was suffused with a deep hum. His eyes were alight with the stars above them, even though they couldn’t seem them. Above the worgen, the lights began to dim more, and waves of energy washed away the image of the ceiling, replacing it with a small, internal night sky, that reflected the heavens. The fighting top, and eyes turned up to the swirling galaxies and nebulas. Everything about Rhonen was vibrating, harder than any spell had ever shaken him before. He felt like he might burst with the energy of it all, and just as he thought he might, he threw his arms wide, and let the energy pass into the sky above them. The hum became a roar, and from the swirling sky, stars began to rain down on top of the worgen in a magnificent Starfall.

Below them, there was panic. Wolves fled in all directions, attempting to scales the walls or head for the door. But they got jammed when too many tried to squeeze through at once. When they tried to ascend the stairs, they were pushed back by combined gunfire and swinging blades that forced them back into the downpour of stars.

Rhonen’s eyes dimmed and his shoulders fell. The sky cleared, revealing the ceiling once again. Below them, the bodies of the worgen were spread about, sizzling and seared with the cold fire of the stars. The church was damaged, but not nearly as bad as the worgen. There was only the sound of their breath in the dim light.

“Well… that was good,” admitted Draven, eyes wide. Rhonen felt numb, looking around. The other men looked relieved.

But Darius looked tense.

“They’ve stopped coming.”

“That’s good, right?” asked Rhonen. Darius shook his head.

“No, Rhonen. That’s not a good thing.”

Without the worgen destroying the Cathedral, there was a deafening silence. Blood was pumping in Rhonen’s ears, and his hands tingled.

Eyes turned up, but there was no sound.

Until it was too late.

Behind them, the stained glass shattered into dazzling, multicolored shards. Worgen pounced from outside, raining down behind them. Rhonen watched Darius fall, claws raking across his arms and chest. Around him, the last guardians of Gilneas fell to the worgen. One large one with black fur lashed out at Rhonen as he put his arm up to defend himself, striking his injured arm. He felt pain.

And then anger.

It was a rage deeper than he had ever felt. His whole life seemed calm compared to the fury welling up within him. His breathing was fast and ragged, and his heart was hammering out of his chest. He heard a voice, his own voice, shouting. Then howling.

The world went red around him, until he saw no more.


	7. Duskhaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look at what you’ve become. Those cursed beasts…  
> They’ve left you nothing more than just another, wretched mongrel.  
> Do you even remember what you did to your friends?  
> You’re kind… hunting the wilds, unchecked…  
> Until we found you.  
> They’ve kept you alive because they still believe you can be saved. To which, I must ask…  
> Is there even a shred of humanity left within you?  
> Perhaps, we will find out soon enough…

The first thing that came back were voices.

What he had heard before, while the world was still red, may have just been a dream. The voices now sounded clearer, almost recognizable.

“I’m not giving up on you, Rhonen. I don’t have a cure of the Curse yet… but there are treaments. You’ll have control again,” said an older man’s voice.

“Give it up, Krennan. It’s time to put this one down. It’s protocol,” came a second, nasty sounding voice. Rhonen didn’t like that voice nearly as much as the first one, but for a reason he could not recall.

“Tell me, Godfrey. Those who stayed in Gilneas City so that we could live. Were they following protocol?” came a third, commanding voice. There was some sound of distaste.

“I don’t think so,” said the third voice again, “Now hand me that potion, Krennan… and double the dosage.”

“I need you to pull through, Rhonen. This dosage is strong enough to kill a horse.”

The voices were painful, they were hurting Rhonen’s head. He tried to pull away, but something was holding him in place. He hook his head, but still couldn’t move. There were words on his tongue, but he couldn’t get them out,

“But I know you. I know what you’re made of. You will be fine.” Rhonen didn’t feel fine. He felt like he was on fire, but something was slowly dampening the blaze.

“Trust me I know what you’re going through. Now close your eyes, and drink up,” said the voice. Someone took hold of Rhonen’s face, and he recoiled. Fingers slipped into his mouth and held it open, and something bitter was poured on his tongue. Hands shut his mouth and held his nose, and he squirmed, swallowing in a panic. It tasted terrible, and it numbed on the way down. His head swam, but the pounding in his ears quieted some. His pulse slowed, and he felt like he could breathe a little easier. He opened his eyes, and felt his sight return, if a little blurry. There looked like there was something on his face, long and dark, but there were people standing in front of him. They looked strange at first, but as his vision calmed, they changed into people he recognized.

Krennan Aranas.

King Greymane

Lord Godfrey.

The King and the Potion-Maker were standing a bit away, looking over a table of assorted chemicals and brews. Godfrey was eyeing him from behind his spectacles with a familiar look of disgust.

“Godfrey?” Rhonen tried to say. His voice was hoarse, it sounded wrong his ears. The potion had numbed his throat, but not fully, and it hurt to speak. Godfrey recoiled some, eyebrows coming together.

“So, Krennan’s potion did not kill you? Well, I suppose that means the human side of you is in control then,” he said. Rhonen blinked and shook his head. It was clearing, but not fast. He still couldn’t move, something was holding his head, and his arms.

“The… human side?”

“I guess I won’t be shooting you after all. At least not yet,” he continued. He didn’t seem to have heard what he said. Rhonen coughed, clearing out his throat. Godfrey frowned more, he didn’t like the display.

“Godfrey… what happened?” Rhonen asked.

“Did you not hear what I said? You seemed far gone, but I thought perhaps you might remember something from the cages.”

“I heard something,” Rhonen said, “but I thought it was a dream. It wasn’t very clear, like it was very far away from where I was.”

“I suppose it must have felt that way. You were pretty far gone, boy,” he said. As the moments passed, memories began to reappear.

“We were in the chapel,” Rhonen said, “I cast a spell. The worgen were defeated, or at least we thought. And then… more of them came, from behind. They took us down… they got me…” he said. He moved his head as much as he could, looking from left to right.

There were stocks set up in a fenced in area. There was a wall hastily built around them, with armed guards manning the top. They looked scared, hands on their guns. They were suspicious of their conversation.

Worgen were trapped in the stocks, head and arms locked down tight. Some looked tired, others angry. Some slept, and other looked very sick. As Rhonen looked to his own sides, he could see his own arms trapped in wood. It felt like his arms, but it didn’t look like them.

His hands were covered in dark hair, and his fingers were long with sharp claws. Rhonen sucked in a breath, and the world rushed into his nose. He could smell the grass, the dirt, the gunpowder from the guns up on the wall. He could smell Godfrey’s sweat, and the sweat of the guards. He could smell their fear, taste it on his tongue. He sneezed, his eyes tearing up.

“I… changed.” Rhonen said. Godfrey took a long breath, the moved closer to Rhonen. He thought he was going to attack him, and recoiled, but he walked around him to the side of the stocks. He revealed a heavy set of keys, and twisted them in the heavy lock that kept the stocks tightly shut. He lifted the stocks away from Rhonen, and he stumbled back, free. Before, Godfrey had been taller than Rhonen by a few inches. Now as he stood, he had to look down at the Lord, who was almost a head shorter than him.

“Go speak to Krennan and give him the good news,” he said. Rhonen took a shaky step forward, looking down. His legs were long, and his knees bent. He could feel long nails scraping the dirt, helping him balance. It took him a few steps, but he got into a rhythm his body recognized. There was a flash in his memory, charging through dark pines and shadowy woods. He blinked, and the memory faded.

“Just remember, Rhonen…I’ve got my eye on you,” Godfrey said from behind him. Rhonen turned to face the man, and he pointed at the guns surrounding them.

“You so much as try and scratch the fleas off your back, and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes,” he said. With that, the man turned, hands behind his back, walking to examine some of the other residents of the impromptu prison yard.

Rhonen wanted to say something, but he had no idea what he might say.

The movement drew the attention of the King and Krennan. When they saw Rhonen, their eyes lit up. Krennan made his way over, looking Rhonen over carefully.

“It worked. By the light, it worked!” he exclaimed. He looked like he might hug Rhonen, but he thought better of it, putting his hands down. The King also looked very pleased, and their familiar faces made Rhonen want to smile. His mouth pulled back, and the two of them followed suit. His head felt different, his face felt different. His fingers carefully touched his muzzle, everything was hair and snout and teeth. He didn’t really know how to smile like this, it all felt so strange.

“Mirror…” he muttered. His voice was deep and resonate, rumbling deep in his chest and throat. It sounded nothing like him, and he felt a deep pang in his heart.

Krennan glanced around, holding up a long finger. He returned with a small looking glass, holding it gingerly in his hands.

“The change was… significant, as I’m sure you know. Please know, we’ve done everything we could,” he said. Rhonen reached down – he was so much taller than them now – and carefully took the looking glass. He noted Krennan’s hand, gloved in mail gauntlets.

“To prevent scratching,” he said in response. Rhonen held the glass in front of his face, squinting and blinking.

They were right, the transformation was significant.

It was certainly him, he was looking out of that dark eye. But it was not his face, not the one he knew. He had dark fur, a little matted but uniform. He had a long snout, and when he opened his mouth in surprise, he could see long, sharp fangs. He ran his tongue over them, they felt huge, and his head felt heavy. But when he closed his mouth, everything seemed to fit. He had long ears, a little nibbled and ragged, but mostly whole. They wagged a little and pulled down. Everything had sounded so loud, but when he put his ears down, it helped dampen the sound a little to more what he was used to.

But most importantly, he now understood why everything looked so strange, and why he had stumbled to his get footing. He thought that perhaps he was dizzy – rather, his right eye was closed. He tried to open it, and though he felt it open, he couldn’t see out of it. There were marks raked across the lid and right brow, and though he could see his eye on there, it looked cloudy. It was almost completely blind.

“My… eye,” he said. He looked to the two of them, but they just shook their heads.

“We did all we could,” said Krennan, “when we found you, it was already like that. It must have happened during the transformation, or afterward. We hunted everyone down in the weeks that followed, many with similar, untreated injuries. You were in the wilds for a long time, and even when you were caught, it was difficult to get close. You… you were not yourself.”

“Only after you were sedated could we get close,” said Greymane.

“And by then, it was too late. The eye was too far gone. We cleaned it out to prevent any illness, but we were unsure if you would be able to see out of it afterward. We decided not to remove it, it still had shape, but the cornea was damaged beyond what we could repair, even with powerful magic. I’m sorry, Rhonen. For everything,” Krennan said.

It was just so much. Everything had changed.

“Is there something… something we could do. Anything? A cure?” Rhonen asked. He hacked again, and it came out like a bark, which made them take a step back from him. Krennan cleared his throat, hands folded in front of him.

“The effects of the Curse cannot ever be fully cured, so far as we know,” he said. Rhonen swallowed, putting the looking glass down, looking at his hands. Krennan turned back to the table, looking over the various vials and tinctures there.

“With treatment, however, your mind will remain yours… and not that of a wild animal. We are fortunate that the treatment worked on you. Normally, I can only treat recent infections.”

“How long is it going to be like this?” Rhonen asked. Krennan frowned.

“For the foreseeable future, I’m afraid. Remember, just because we’re not sure how to break the Curse now, doesn’t mean we won’t know in some time, with more study. Do not lose all hope, Rhonen. There I much work yet to be done,” he said. Rhonen didn’t feel very hopeful, but he did believe in Krennan.

“I suppose this makes us even,” Rhonen said. Krennan nodded.

“The debt is square. We have given up on some, but we kept trying with you, beyond when we usually might have stopped. I wouldn’t stop until we tried everything. Now that we have you back, it will be easier to maintain this state.”

Krennan shuffled some things around on the workspace, his face a little concerned.

“We’ll need to continue your medication if we’re to have you reverse the Curse. You are as you are now, but worgen are not as effected by potions and poultices as humans are. The effects may begin to fade faster than we know, and so we need more ingredients, for you and the others we have brought back from the brink,” he said.

“What do you need?” Rhonen asked. He wasn’t sure about the future, but any task that could take his mind of the situation seemed better than musing over his new life. He could still feel the eyes of the guards behind him. If he made himself useful, they may be more inclined to trust him.

‘Mandrake essence, to brew another batch for you. You will find a crate stashed beneath a shed southwest of town,” he said. Rhonen raised a hairy eyebrow.

“That’s an odd place to put something so important,” he remarked. Krennan shook his head.

“I stowed it there some time ago, for just this moment. We much before, from what people brought with them. I took what I could store and put it away for when I started to run out. I don’t have access to the stores in Gilneas right now, and so I needed to be sure I had a collection specifically for this remedy. I even had a watchman assigned to guard over it. The time has come to make use of it. Bring it back to me, and I can make some more medication for you, as well as the others,” he said.

Only now did Rhonen think to take a better look at the other worgen around. He had seen them, but had not tried to recognize them.  Some were still wearing things, others had much less. They looked sad, but it was for the best.

One in the stocks was particularly well dressed. Weapons were laid around him, thrown to the ground when he had been restrained. There was a single pistol and an ornate, familiar looking saber.

“Wait… Draven?” he asked. He moved closer, and the worgen’s head turned up. He looked into his eyes, but they didn’t seem to recognize him. He huffed and put his head back down, tired.

Rhonen closed his eyes, and saw a flash. He saw claws, felt something burning in his eyes. His vision was red and blurry, but he was looking down at Draven, holding his saber in front of him. He lunged forward and returned to the present.

He had attacked him. After the change.

“We have to help him,” he said. Krennan nodded.

“Fetch the Mandrake Essence and we can try. It will be difficult, he’s been changed only a little less time than you. It will be tough, but you were the oldest one we’ve brought back so far. It’s possible, but his time is running out.” Rhonen nodded, moving out of the holding pens, out into the town of Duskhaven.

It was Gilneas, but on a smaller scale. He had visited the town often – he and his master had stayed in the town during the Spring for picking herbs for the stores. It had been a sleepy town when he had been there.

Now, it was bustling.

The refugees of GIlneas had tripled the population of the small town overnight. There were living spaces strewn about like a messy room – built hither and thither in any place they could be fit. There were tents, shacks, lean-tos, hammocks, and all manner of territory marking to signify temporary ownership of the space. There were families with small children, lines for rations and linens, people washing clothes in buckets and gathered around the well at the center of town.

There were eyes on him as he made his way out of the pens. Some were fearful, others angry. Some were understanding, for there were other worgen living among them. Many of them were grouped together, in the more hastily built living spaces around the town. They were among the people, but they were not welcome, like standing on opposite sides of a deep river.

There were familiar faces in the crowd, but they didn’t seem to recognize him. He didn’t blame them, he didn’t recognize his own face. But not only did they look at him as a stranger, their faces were frowns of fear – even derision.

“Rhonen!” he heard a gruff voice say. He turned to see another worgen walking up to him, hands spread in front of him. He was in a dark long-coat of grey, his fur a lighter grey, and even lighter around the face, almost white. His ears were long, and he had light, intelligent brown eyes.

“I was told to watch for someone lookin like you,” he said. “My name’s Jack.”

“Derrington?” Rhonen asked. Jack nodded.

“What? Didn’t recognize my beautiful face?” he asked, his face pulling back to reveal his long fangs. Rhonen figured that must have been a smile. Rhonen chuckled despite himself.

Jack Derrington was the town dilettante – knower of many things, master of none. He also had a network of helpers throughout the city, and so, odd jobs were his specialty. If there was something you wanted to know how to do, you learned from Jack, or he had someone else he knew teach you.

“You were watching for me? How did you know it was me?” Rhonen asked. Jack was still smiling.

“I’ve been hanging around worgen for a while now, as it were. You start to see things, with time. Your face may change, but the people inside mostly don’t. There’s something in the eyes – oh, sorry.” He said. Rhonen blinked, hand going to his eyes.

“It’s all right. I don’t remember it, really.”

“Well, there’s a few people who would like to see you,” Jack said. He turned to the scene behind him, a dirty amalgamation of shelters and impromptu living spaces.

“He’s back!” he called. Some of the worgen turned, none of them seemed to recognize him. From the crowd, two specific worgen emerged. One was a man, tall with dark grey fur in a black waistcoat. The other was a woman, with a slenderer build, in a long, brown dress and head wrap. The fur on her face was flecked with white, and she had old, green eyes.

The woman’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened with a pop.

“Rhonen!” she called. She rushed forward, as fast as her dress would allow, throwing her arms around his broad shoulders. Rhonen froze, unsure who the woman was. Then he breathed in, and his sensitive nose twitched. She smelled of fields and herbs, spicy and green, and years spent in the shop rushed back into the whole in his heart.

“Master!” he growled. His long arms encircled her, and he was careful to lay his fingers carefully on her clothes. The fur around his face felt wet, and he realized there must have tears running down his face. He had been so sure she would be lost to him, and sure she would be lost to him now. But here she was, just like him.

“But… I don’t understand? You left with everyone else. You were supposed to be safe,” he said. Celestine bared her small teeth, turning her head away.

“It was supposed to be. But they had overrun the city, more than we ever knew. We fled out of the city, but in the woods toward Duskhaven… they hunted us down. We barely made it, many of us didn’t. We saved as many as we could, but I was scratched. I helped who I could, and by the time I had started to change, Krennan had created his remedy. It was very effective, if… powerful,” she said. Rhonen looked around, and he could see it. Worse, he could smell it, the same cloying scent that filled his own nostrils. The remedy was noxious, meant to fog the mind to some extent. The other worgen all had cloudy eyes, like they had spent too much time at the tavern. Their shoulders were slouched, all of them dirty and disheveled. Something was happening among the remaining Gilneans, something that didn’t sit right with Rhonen.

But it would have to wait, her story had reminded him of his task.

“The remedy… Krennan asked me to grab some things for him outside of town. Will you be here when I return?” he asked. Celestine nodded.

“I am glad you’re all right, Rhonen. But are you sure you need to get this for him?” she asked. Rhonen nodded.

“It’s just outside of town, it will only take me a moment. Then you can bring me up to speed, it’s important that I get this,” he said. Celestine nodded.

“Truly you are a wonder, Rhonen. Go and come back safely,” she said. Rhonen hugged her tightly again, a low growl humming in his chest. He moved passed her, into the throng of watching worgen. They parted for him and set back to their business, improving their temporary living spaces. And waiting.

The smell was powerful, and Rhonen suspected that even with a human nose, it would have been something to behold. Duskhaven was closer to the coast, and the rain coalesced above their heads, constantly falling in light, cool drops. Even when there was no rain,  there was a pervasive mist that blanketed the town, hiding it from the view of the city most of the time. Rhonen made his way through the mud huts, watching women washing clothes, men sitting about in various torn trappings, throwing cards or drinking. Behind him, he could hear more soothing, human voices from the town, in the buildings, by warm hearths and talking politely.

Exile. What Gileans always do.

Rhonen walked carefully, his mind on his knew feet. He was a quite a bit taller than before, and the world felt far beneath him, making him a little unsteady. Now out of the town, he could see the misty coast beyond, mostly hidden in the mist. He could smell the brine, the salt, hear the waves crashing angrily on the coast. Waters around Silverpine were always choppy with the weather.

Down the path, across the clearing, and by a fence built a long time ago around someone’s long abandoned farm, stood the shed Krennan had referred to. His feet crushed the damp brush and grass beneath as he loped down until he stood before the shed.

He took another breath. Something was wrong.

There was a smell, something he knew, but was so much stronger now. He crouched before he knew what he was doing, his fur standing on end over his neck and back. He sniffed, his head moving back and forth as he combed around the thick mist. His claws brushed something, and he rose.

At his feet lay the mangled body of the watchman, and in his mind, he saw the captain from before, right before everything had happened what seemed just a short while ago in Gilneas. But this was different. The body was cut badly, but not shredded like the worgen were want to do with their prey. This was methodical, there had been a fight, and there were clean slashes at his armors weak points – beneath the arms and along the sides of the torso. Someone had done this.

Next to the watchman was the other smell on the air – a destroyed crate of crushed herbs, the ones Krennan had been seeking. It had been stomped into oblivion, sunk below the deepening mud, useless.

Somewhere in the distance, a mournful horn blew, and Rhonen’s ears perked. His head turned across the fence, toward the coastline. The sun flashed behind a brief window in the clouds, and around him, the mist began to partially melt away. The better sight, Rhonen could see all the way out passed the rocky beach and onto the water.

Riding the choppy waves, several ships were pushing toward the beach. Atop the sails, Rhonen could see better than he had ever seen before. He could read the colors easily, as though they were right in front of him.

The white mask of the Forsaken.


End file.
